


A Serpent's Mistaken Love

by ZoiAeras



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (If it could be called that.), (It's not entirely a dark fic.), (Meaning he is...somewhat capable of love.), Abuse, Burning, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Horcruxes, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Psychological Horror, Romance, Self-Harm, Smut, Sociopath Tom Riddle, Suicidal Harry, Suicidal Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26261464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoiAeras/pseuds/ZoiAeras
Summary: Harry finds a diary named Pharrell.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Diary Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 23
Kudos: 152





	1. Through Green Globes

  
  
  


**_CHAPTER I: Through Green Globes_**

* * *

Harry had found the journal on his bed one day. He tried first to find out if it belonged to anyone, but after everyone had denied it as theirs, he simply decided to keep it. It was just an old blank journal—he was positive he could find some use for it. 

Maybe he would use it to keep track of valuable information—tests, schedules...whatever he needed to remember. 

So, Harry sat in the common room and scribbled down the date, along with the most annoying thing Snape had done that day (this took a while, as there was quite a list to choose from). 

He hadn’t expected the journal to respond. Why would he?

**_‘He sounds like a horrible man.’_ **

Harry stared at the pages for a moment.

_‘You can talk?’_

**_‘Of course. I am Pharrell McInnis... You are?’_ **

_‘Harry Potter.’_

  
  


* * *

Over the course of four weeks, Harry found himself writing more and more in his journal. Pharrell always seemed to have an answer for _everything_. And at some point, Harry began to trust the notebook—after all, it was usually right.

He told the book everything.

Even the things he was afraid to talk about out loud, or had tried to once...and had it not go well. Pharrell knew about the Dursleys…he _understood_ , and he was _there_ for Harry like no one else could be, or _was_ , or had ever been…...

There was no fear it would repeat anything he told it; after all, once he really started to divulge his greatest secrets to Pharrell, Harry didn’t dare let him out of his sight.

_Pharrell went everywhere Harry did._

He also helped Harry reconnect with a side of himself he never even realised he’d buried—his Slytherin half. He had always looked down on the Slytherins, but it no longer felt right to do so after learning his new best friend was one.

Besides, he allowed Malfoy to taint the name of Slytherin in his mind, and not every Slytherin was a _Malfoy—_ some had to be good people, like Pharrell was. 

So here he was sitting in the empty room where the mirror of Erised once stood, writing away in his book—quite neatly bunking potions. It wasn’t like skiving to talk to his friend was _too_ terrible, today was just a study day to work on some essay Snape had assigned. Besides, he didn’t want people to try and bother him about being...what he is.

_‘Pharrell, I know you’re a Slytherin, and…well, I wanted to ask you something.’_

**_‘Ask away. As a Gryffindor, I’m sure you must have many questions.’_ **

_‘Well, the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, so I’d rather you not think of me as separate from you.’_

**_‘Do you think you’re in the wrong house as a Gryffindor?’_ **

_‘No. I mean, I_ _am_ _brave and chivalrous, and all the values of my house. But... I’m determined and ambitious as well... Not so sure about being cunning.’_

_‘I’ve been a leader of sorts too, when I need to be.’_

**_‘I think that you can hold aspects of both Slytherin and Gryffindor, they’re not as different as people seem to believe. Maybe you should try to understand and connect with your Slytherin qualities more? It does good to be both brave and cunning.’_ **

_‘How do you make yourself more cunning?’_

**_‘Take note of people. Their strengths, their weaknesses—use those to further your own goals. It doesn’t have to be an evil tactic or inherently harmful.’_ **

**_‘Simply be charming. You already have a head start on that one, I’m quite certain. You_ ** **_are_ ** **_the boy who lived, after all.’_ **

**_‘Just remember,_ ** **_be everyone’s friend and no one’s enemy_ ** **_. Or at least have it be seen that way. It can be hard to treat all with kindness, in a friendly manner no matter what... but it is_ ** **_crucial_ ** **_. If you’re always helpful and patient, no one will have reason to do you harm, and they will have been given every reason to defend and protect you. In this way…you can win a fight without hurting anyone.’_ **

_‘That sounds reasonable enough.’_

**_‘It’s easier said than done, of course—people can be… unfair, sometimes even unpleasant. And you must be kind and reasonable, no matter what. But I’m sure you can manage it.’_ **

**_‘Feel free to write your notes on people, everything about them, in my pages. I might be able to help. They say there’s nothing so good sometimes as a second pair of eyes.’_ **

_‘Thank you,’_

Harry paused for a moment, but Pharrell knew there was more he wanted to say. Eventually, after a tedious stretch, the young man ventured:

_‘do you think being a parselmouth means I should be in Slytherin?’_

**_‘Are you truly a Parselmouth, Harry?’_ **

_‘Yeah. I really am. I understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore, but pl—’_

**_‘I would never hold being a Parselmouth against you. It’s a beautiful gift!’_ **

**_‘Harry...when I went to school, Dumbledore was just a professor. Transfiguration. He had it out for me the way Snape has it for you. Dumbledore_ ** **_hates_ ** **_Slytherins and my family. He also hates me for being a Parselmouth—he thinks people like you and me are evil.’_ **

**_‘He was also the one who had me go back to my...family. Despite knowing what they were like. Just as he does to you. He probably does it because the paperwork would inconvenience him.’_ **

**_‘If he finds out about me… I think he’ll hurt me. Please, I need you to trust me and do what I tell you if that ever happens. Can you do that, Harry?’_ **

_‘I can’t imagine Dumbledore doing that without a good reason_ —’

**_‘My parents did some awful things. Besides that, a lot of time has passed since then — he’s probably grown wiser in his age…maybe? I’m just worried, he always saw me as my father, and I’d hate for him to_ ** **_separate us_ ** **_because of an old grudge. I care about you too much to lose you.’_ **

Harry smiled; if it made Pharrell more comfortable, he’d do it…no further questions asked

_‘Okay, I’ll do it, then. I_ _can’t_ _don’t want to lose you either. But I don’t think Dumbledore would do that sort of thing anymore. I mean… I just mean, he’s probably changed a lot over the years... Right?’_

**_‘Thank you, Harry.’_ **

_'Potions must be ending soon. I better go to my next class. Talk later, Pharrell!’_

Harry didn’t wait for a response; he got up and walked out the empty classroom, sadly tucking the book safely into his pocket alongside his wand (he shrank the book a week ago after Pharrell handily taught him the spell. He said he always wanted to be there for Harry when he was needed).

Harry doubted he would ever find a more loyal friend.

* * *

  
  


“Harry, you take that bloody book with you everywhere!” Ron hissed. “You don’t think you could at least leave it behind when you’re eating breakfast?!” 

“No, I can’t! He’ll be lonely!” 

No sooner than said, Harry snapped his mouth shut smartly. Things were tough lately. The book seemed to be his only real friend after he was outed as a parselmouth to the school…they treated him as less than human, now...and part of him agreed with them. 

But Pharrell understood. After all, he was a parselmouth too. Pharrel was his friend. Unlike _these two_ who stared at him with those _concerned_ eyes all because _he_ could _talk to snakes_ (and they couldn’t. And difference meant shunning—he and Pharrell were the same.)

“He... ** _he_** _will be lonely?_ ” Ron blinked, stupefied, and glanced at Hermione for reassurance. 

The girl gave Ron a concerned glance. “Harry...this…this _thing_ with the book is unhealthy! We should take it to Dumbledore—” 

“NO!” 

Harry didn’t mean to shout so loud. He was just...upset. Unsettled by the very idea that they would take him _away_.

The rest of the table stopped talking and looked at him. 

It seemed that all at once, as if prompted by an invisible conductor, everyone stopped talking to stare at the parselmouth. Ha. A beat passed, then another—and when even after a third still nothing interesting had happened (no scary snake related entertainment with breakfast today, sorry everyone), they turned back to their meals, their own discussions picked back up to fill the Great Hall with its usual mealtime background hum... But those few seconds seemed to last an eternity to Harry. 

“Harry Potter! Your grades have steadily been dropping, not to mention you _skipped_ potions yesterday! And you don’t talk to anyone anymore—you barely even talk to _us_ . People aren’t avoiding you because you’re a parselmouth, they’re avoiding you because you’re rude to them—and _you_ avoid _them_ !” Hermione hissed at him and pointed to the book. “ _It’s_ responsible for this, Harry. Please, you have to understand that!” 

“She’s right, mate,” Ron states reasonably. “Ever since you got that book...you’ve been...sorta _off_.” 

“It’s not ‘that book’ or an ‘it’, you know...” 

There was a second of silence. 

“...and he has a _name_. It’s Pharrell McInnis.” 

With that matter-of-fact pronouncement, he promptly twisted round on the bench, got up and left the Great Hall without even touching his breakfast. 

The redhead offered Hermoine an expression of horror. “The fumes from all Neville’s ruined potions must’ve finally got to him! Or that one of Crabbe’s last week—the one that melted through to the room below and smelt like overcooked cabbage.” Ron’s nose wrinkled—he didn’t tolerate poorly-cooked anything.

“Ron...we have to tell Dumbledore this. This has gone on quite long enough—it’s been _weeks_!” 

  
  


* * *

“Harry, your teachers tell me you have been exhibiting some concerning behavior in class,” Dumbledore began carefully. “Is there something you wish to talk about, or perhaps something I should know?” 

“No, sir...nothing.” 

With the way that the headmaster was looking at him, peering solemnly over his half-moon spectacles, Harry realised he wouldn’t be able to get away with that statement.

“Nothing... Nothing at all?” 

“No, sir,” Harry reaffirmed, this time more confidently, “nothing at all.” 

“Very well, then,” Dumbledore sighed. “Off you go to your classes,” he said, making Harry all but leap from the chair as though stung, quickly heading for the exit——to freedom. However, the Headmaster was not yet quite done and just before Harry could actually leave, stated, “But Harry, please do come back when you’re ready to tell the truth.” 

The boy froze. His stomach dropped, and it was only the threat of losing Pharrell looming over his head that managed to contain the telling shiver of his reaction and keep it from being caught. 

Levelly, he said, “But Professor Dumbledore...I _am_ telling the truth.” 

Harry didn’t wait for the headmaster to respond this time, quickly absconding down the spiral staircase. 

It was true, what Pharrell said... They would split them up... Dumbledore would take Pharrell away, separate Harry from his _only_ _friend_. 

That could not be allowed to happen.

* * *

After three days had passed, Harry assumed he was in the clear, that Professor Dumbledore believed him when he left his office and that was the end of it...until an enchanted note landed in front of him during class one afternoon.

He made the excuse of needing to use the bathroom, getting up without waiting for the professor to respond as he bolted from the room, not even bothering to think about how suspicious that behavior was after receiving a note.

He darted into the first empty classroom he saw, sliding Pharrell out the pocket of his robes.

_‘Pharrell, he’s called me to his office again. To ask about_ _you_ _, I think.”_

**_‘Aright, Harry, I need to explain something to you. When I went to school here, I found a place called the Chamber of Secrets. Only Parselmouths can access it, so I want you to make a copy of me and throw me in there... and that way, when Dumbledore takes ‘me’ away from you, you won’t have lost anything—not really.’_ **

_‘How do I make a copy? Can you tell me? I only have till after lunch, then I’ll be stuck in class!’_

**_‘There is no_ ** **_time_ ** **_to tell you. But I can_ ** **_show_ ** **_you the right spell.’_ **

Harry read the words again... What did he mean by _show_? He found out moments later—dropping the diary out of shock, a glow began to emit from its pages; it illuminated the area around him, warm light pouring out to enshroud Harry, and pull him into the book like a warm embrace.

It was disorientating and Harry felt wobbly aft—

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry stared straight ahead at the older boy—for all he’d _spoken_ to Pharrell, this was his first time _seeing_ him. Even Harry, having never been one to judge people on appearance, noticed he was _handsome_. His dark hair falling in neat curls on his forehead...pale skin, and his striking red eyes...

They both appeared to be standing in an endless grey plane where there was no distinction between sky and ground... It was a simple, flat, _nothingness_. It was just them. Two friends in the emptiness.

“Y-you’re… _real_ ,” tumbled from Harry’s mouth as he stared up at Pharrell.

“Of course I am. We don’t have much time,” he said, voice low and urgent. He pulled out his wand, instructing, “Do exactly what I do.” He made a flicking motion and, the sound echoing in this strange non-world, shouted out, “Geminio!”

“It duplicates things?”

“Yes. You will need to put a lot of power into duplicating my journal if you want to fool Dumbledore. Now you try it.”

“Geminio!” Harry cries, trying to precisely replicate what Pharrell did.

“No, not quite,” the elder boy states suddenly, appearing beside him. “Like _this_ —” Pharrel takes hold of Harry’s arm, directing the boy’s hand to make the desired movement correctly. “Now try again.”

Harry did as he was told, keeping in mind how Pharrel moved his arm. It took two more attempts before his friend was satisfied.

“Good, that’s enough. Be sure to throw the _real_ me into the Chamber of Secrets. The entrance is in the second-floor girls’ lavatory. In Parseltongue tell the sink to ‘open’, and you’ll know what to do from there.”

“I will. Thank you, Pharrell.”

The elder boy smiled fondly at Harry. “Don’t mention it. But whatever you do, don’t come to get me for a few months after. I can wait that long—I’ve waited longer for less. The last thing we need is for me to get caught… We’ll just have to lay low for now.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts’. You _must_ do as I say. Promise me that, Harry,” Pharrel said earnestly, brushing Harry’s hair away from his forehead to inspect his scar. “Whatever you do, do _not_ come retrieve me.”

“Okay. I...as long as you’re okay with waiting that long?”

Tom gives the boy a fond and reassuring smile. “Just focus on your studies while I’m gone. We wouldn’t want you to get behind with worry, would we?”

Harry agrees that wouldn’t be a good thing at all.

  
  


* * *

As soon as Harry entered Dumbledore’s office, he heard the man gently call to him as he opened the door.

“Come now, Harry, have a seat.” 

Harry stalked over to the chair Dumbledore summoned for him. 

“Do you care for a—” the man began, but Harry cut him off with a clipped:

“No thank you, sir.”

He gave Harry a faint, worried smile.

“I know about the journal, Harry.”

Harry forced a strangled smile onto his face, heart starting to race. 

So the man _did_ know… Dumbledore really was going to take his only friend away from him...just like Pharrell said he would. Harry jumped up and took a few steps back, retreating to escape back through the door…only for it to shut on him, trapping him inside the Headmaster’s office.

“Harry... Don’t you go through that door.” 

He was startled by the seriousness in the headmaster’s voice, having never heard the man talk to him like that before—somehow he doubts anyone else has, either.

“I know you have it on you,” the aged wizard continued grimly. “Bring it here.”

"No! Professor—you don’t _understand_!” he pleaded, turning to look back at Dumbledore. Harry’s back pressed so flat against his only possible exit that the two were almost moulded together, desperate for it to open.

“It is dangerous, Harry… Most certainly dark magic, the sort of magic which takes many forms, and none of them benign.”

“It _is_ _not_! And he’s not an ‘it’, sir. He’s my friend, and you _can’t have him_!”

With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore wordlessly summoned both the book and Harry’s own wand, plucking the two items out the air as they soared towards him and setting them gently on his desk. 

“Let us talk about this, Harry.”

It took Harry every ounce of will power he had not to smile. He had done everything Pharrell asked, throwing the real book into the hidden chamber in that girls’ bathroom, just as he was told to, while Dumbledore was satisfied in his success and left holding only the decoy. All of the preparations were done before he left for Dumbledore’s office. The book that now lay on his desk was just a copy, nothing more. The real Pharrell was safe.

“Harry, I understand you must be confused and scared. Worried for your friend here, even.” He gestured towards the book, which was still well out of Harry’s reach along with his wand. “This journal is a dangerous dark artifact. From what I understand, it can talk to you? If you write in it, it writes back?”

It wasn’t the real journal. But Harry didn’t even dare _think_ that. It _was_ the journal… He had to make sure he believed that, or Dumbledore might see through the ruse.

“Please, sir…you’re making a mistake!” Harry’s words shook. “Pharrell’s my only friend!”

The man raised his eyebrows at that. 

“ _Is_ he your only friend Harry?” The man asked softly. “Ron and Hermione are your friends. They came to me worried about you, Harry. They want to make sure you’re alright.”

Harry couldn’t find the words to respond. Well...maybe...it was a _little_ absurd for him to think of Pharrell as his _only_ friend. But he certainly was the only _good_ one...the only one worth keeping, at any rate. He came to that decision on his own, Pharrell had nothing to do with it. Besides, Pharrell was there for him when his so-called ‘friends’ _weren’t_.

“He…he was fine with me being a…a…a _parselmouth_ ,” Harry ventured, uttering the phrase as if it burned him.

“There is nothing wrong with being a parselmouth, Harry—it is a simple _ability_ , albeit rare, that says nothing of one’s true character. I’m sure your friends would say the same if you spoke to them about it.” 

Harry paused. He’d come to think other’s hated him for being a parselmouth. He…Hermoine _did_ say he was the one avoiding others and being rude to them… Even if that _were_ true, it’s not Pharrell’s fault. _Pharrell has done nothing wrong._

“Now Harry, we must destroy thi—”

_“NO!”_

Harry sprang out the chair, reaching for the book; if Dumbledore tried to destroy it, he might notice it wasn’t the real journal! 

He had almost managed to grab it off the headmaster’s desk, when the elderly wizard caught his shoulders, tugging him out of reach. Dumbledore sighed in frustration, he had been hoping to have a _civil_ discussion alone with Harry. 

Looking up to one of the portraits, Dumbledore calmly says. “Go get Minerva, Quigley.”

The painted headmaster in the portrait rose out his lounge chair and walked over to a door, opening it and passing through into, not the next portrait as Harry had seen others in the hallways do, but out of the office entirely.

“Harry! _Harry,_ listen to me!” Dumbledore pleaded, struggling against the child fighting to get free of his arms. “You _must_ calm down. We can _talk about this_.”

Harry’s struggling ceased. As upset as he was, he didn’t want to _hurt_ the headmaster. He just needed to prevent the man from trying to destroy the book. It could just be…locked away, or something—he had to convince Dumbledore not to destroy it.

“Y-you _can’t hurt him_ ! I won’t _let_ you!”

“Harry…” Dumbledore began slowly, placatingly. “He’s not a person. _It_ ’s not a _real person_.”

The boy kept quiet for a long while; they both knew McGonagall would arrive at any moment.

“He _is_ real… I know it. I just _know_ he is!”

Even though Pharrell wasn’t there, Harry had to defend him. He _had_ to.

“Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, “please, just listen to what I have to say. Now…if I let go, will you behave?”

The boy grumbled a reluctant, “Yes.”

Dumbledore released him gradually, testing the truth of Harry’s assertion; when no more fighting came, he released the boy fully. Harry practically leapt back from Dumbledore, as if the headmaster had burned him. With a gulp, Harry picked up his toppled chair and dropped back down in it heavily, glaring daggers at the man. 

Pharrell was right about him.

“Albus!” Minerva exclaimed as she rushed in. “You needed me? Gracious—Albus, is that a _scratch_ on your face?”

Harry turned bright red—he’d scratched Dumbeldore in his struggle?

He tried to swallow the guilt bubbling up in his heart, it was all to protect Pharrell...so it was justified...Harry was justified in hurting...Dumbledore.

“It’s fine, Harry,” Dumbledore said placidly, but also tiredly. “You were just trying to protect who you thought was your friend.”

“Mr. Potter—” Minerva aghast at the _idea_ of Harry managing to scratch the headmaster deep enough to draw blood, let alone having _done it_.

“Yes, Minerva. He scratched me. But Harry here...has become victim to a dark artifact—”

“He’s my friend! I won’t let you take him from me! He’s done nothing wrong!”

“—and I am unsure if I can continue to handle this matter by myself—he seems unsettlingly willing to protect the book in question.” His hand brushes against the scratch.

Minerva looked between the headmaster and the second-year. “Mr. Potter, you have to listen to the headmaster. You must understand, he has only your best interests in mind.”

“Pharrell said you’d do this. I should have listened to him!” Harry growled out. “He was right—he always is.”

“Mr Potter, I trust the headmaster fully. He would not be taking these actions without _reason_ ,” she reassured. “Albus, may I see it—the book? It _is_ the notebook Potter’s been keeping with him all year, I presume?”

“Indeed it is,” Albus confirms. He bent down—surprisingly spry for his age—and retrieved the book, gingerly handing it over to McGonagall. She was careful to keep it well out of range of Harry.

She peered at it for a long time, eyes narrowed, before a frown pinched-in the skin between her eyebrows and flattened her lips into barely a crease. “Where did you find this, Mr. Potter?”

Harry swallowed, a lump beginning to form in his throat…because in fact, he had no idea how it ended up on his bed...and he had to admit it was rather _strange_ how it just ended up there. Who would give up a book like Pharrell...and why leave it on _his bed?_ It...didn’t make sense, but he trusted Pharrell—more than anyone. He’d done nothing but help him and be a good friend. So why does it even matter how they became acquainted?

“I…I don’t have to tell you that,” he managed to work out.

The book was _his_. Pharrel was. What did it matter where he came from?

“Mr. Potter,” she repeated firmly, her tone brooking no repeal.

There was no way to get out of this—Harry knew that. Since they didn’t have the real Pharrel, there was no need for him to worry; perhaps he should just play along now to make them _feel_ like they were winning? Or would that somehow make his and Pharrel’s ruse more obvious, putting his friend at further risk?

He wasn’t sure.

And Pharrel… If only his friend was here to help him. Pharrel always knew what to do.

“Harry...” the headmaster chided while peering at the boy over his half-moon glasses.

And—

“I don’t...know.” Harry turned red. Of course, they wouldn’t listen to him even if he told the truth... “I came back to my dorm one day, and it was just there...on my bed.”

“Harry—”

“Look, I know you probably don’t believe me, but I…please, that was how I met him...or...how I found it?” Harry was unable to continue hiding his nervousness. Sure...Pharrel gave him some tips on how to lie, but he couldn’t help but feel he was _disappointing_ his more-cunning friend. Glancing up, he forced himself to make eye contact with Dumbledore as he exclaimed, “I don’t _know_ , okay?! And it was just a blank journal, so I thought I’d use it as a diary…try to work out my thoughts and take notes and just…but then, it wrote back. _He_ spoke _back_ …and I just thought…wanted to…”

Harry trailed off, deflating. He shuffled awkwardly, unsure how much of this was just playing things up for the professors, and how much was…real.

No—it was _all_ just a ruse. A game to keep his friend, (the only person he trusted and could talk to), safe. It was all just to keep Pharrell safe.

And...was it working?

Dumbledore presented him with a reassuring smile over his half-moon spectacles. “Harry… don’t worry—I do believe you,” he said. “I know you are telling me the truth.”

Harry relaxed at the headmaster’s words. He was believed—they were in the clear.

The man took on a calm but serious tone. “Now, Harry...you surely understand that book is dangerous?” At Harry’s resulting shrug, the man continued, “We do not have to destroy it right away… However, you need to understand that this artifact has been _hurting_ you. Your marks have been dropping. You have not been attending classes…and, perhaps most damagingly, you have been avoiding your peers. No matter the angle from which you observe the situation, Harry, this book is _dangerous_.”

Taken aback to hear it all laid out like that, Harry’s eyes darted to the book still clutched firmly in McGonagall’s hands—her grip tightened reflexively. Despite it not being the real book, his eye twitched at her rough treatment of it.

Harry took a deep breath and said, “I—I don’t think you know what you’re talking about, sir. Pharrell’s my friend and…I think I trust him more than you. I- I can’t let you hurt him, sir…he’s a _person_ . _We don’t hurt people_.”

“Harry...do books normally talk?”

Harry shook his head—he supposed not. But Pharrel wasn’t really a _book_.

“Do they convince us that they are our only friends, or agree with us when we tell them we see them that way?”

Harry paused for a moment. They wanted him to see how _odd_ this was. He knew it was strange, but he also knew that Pharrell had done nothing wrong. Eventually, after thinking it over for a few moments, he shook his head.

This query gave Harry actual pause. Dumbledore wanted him to see how _odd_ all this was… and honestly, Harry knew it was strange, but at the same time he knew Pharrell hadn’t done anything wrong—it was hardly _his_ fault he was stuck like that, right?

After considering it for a moment, he shook his head. “It _is_ …a bit strange, I guess. _Pharrell_ ’s strange at times and…he...uh, _asks_ a lot about you, too. And…” Harry looked away, not sure he could deliberately mislead the headmaster while looking him straight in the eyes—they pierced him, saw everything, it seemed. Eventually, he admitted to his feet, “When we talk about you, he doesn’t have really many good things to say…”

Harry’s mind briefly flickered back to something Pharrel once told him:

  
  


_‘It is, in my experience, that the best way to lie (and get away with it) is to build your misdirection around a core of truth. You must evoke realism. A mistake (yes, Harry, a_ _mistake_ _—even I have been known to make those, on occasion) I often made when I was younger, before Hogwarts and that I did not realise I was making until I was your age, is that when I lied there was not enough emotion present—don’t be afraid to allow the appropriate emotions to seep into the lie… as long as it would be something you would have felt when speaking the truth.’_

  
  


“I…”

_“Harry…”_ Dumbledore repeated softly, “I understand this is hard for you. But I cannot claim I am not glad that you are finally talking to us.” He glanced at McGonagall and, with a minor motion of his head, she took the book—to hide, no doubt. “But you must accept Pharrel isn’t real, and that this book is dangerous—exceptionally so. He has hurt your relationships with other students, damaged your studies and left you with marks that, quite frankly, I don’t expect of the boy whose mind was sharp enough to deduce the Philosopher’s Stone’s presence in the castle, that Voldemort was attempting it’s theft, _and_ make it past traps set by wizards both older and, dare I say, vastly more experienced than yourself.”

“I was so proud, that day in the hospital wing,” Dumbledore confessed, his eyes twinkling a bit, then ruefully added with a smile, “though of course, I would have preferred you came to me last year, without putting yourself and your friends in peril. But ah, all’s well that ends well! 

Though that is quite off-topic, as it seems your trust has been broken in me...by this book.”

Harry forced himself to look into the headmaster’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said—and his mind whispered quietly to itself in continuation: _sorry I have to lie to you, but I need to protect my friend_. “Really, sir.”

The man sighed, holding out Harry’s wand toward him. “Run along now, Harry, it’s almost dinner time. Your friends are probably worried.”

The man sighed, appearing all of a sudden his century plus in age. He held Harry’s wand out towards him for its owner to reclaim. “Run along now, Harry. It’s almost time for dinner, and I have it on good authority the kitchens have outdone themselves with the roly-poly this evening. Our Professor Sprout had baneberries surplus to Professor Snape’s needs, and the elves have been experimenting. You would not want to miss out, and nor would your friends wish to miss _you_ —they have been dreadfully worried on your behalf.”

Harry didn’t speak a word as he snatched his wand back and made a swift retreat.

  
  


* * *

After Dumbledore’s removal of the diary from Harry’s care, things went back to normal for a month afterwards. Or, well...a new normal—one Pharrell would certainly approve of. But personally, Harry was starting to find Pharrell’s sudden absence from his life was nigh-unbearable.

The only thing to help make the days remotely bearable was studying. Just as Pharrell had suggested, Harry poured himself into his studies. He’d really let himself get behind, since he spent— _used_ to spend—so much time with Pharrell. Now he was playing catch up with his classmates.

But also, Harry knew his friend would be upset if he settled for just _catching up_ . He needed to go further, _be better_ . He had to be better for Pharrell. And so Harry learned all he could weeks in advance; he studied to the point _Hermione_ , of all people, tried to force him to leave the library to ‘take a break’. Obviously she was getting jealous of how he now surpassed her in nearly all their classes. Ha—it must be galling for her to find the shoe on the other foot for a change.

And he didn’t even want to start on _Ron_.

_That_ Weasley barely said a word to him, these days, though he was always there around, just _hovering_ . Lingering. Loitering. Giving more and more odd looks as Harry pulled bigger and bigger tomes down from increasingly dusty and untraversed aisles in the library. In fact, the last time Ron actually spoke to him was when Harry had brought up to Wood the idea of quitting the quidditch...which didn’t go over well _at all_.

The suggestion he wanted to leave turned into a full-blown argument between himself and Wood, and then _Weasley_ had come along to give his two pennies’ worth. And the worst part of the whole thing was they were _right_. In the end, Harry found himself agreeing to stay on the team if only because Hermione, who showed up at some point, had stated ‘quidditch is just as important as studying’.

If those words weren’t directed at him, he would have laughed.

But...Pharrell probably wouldn’t be too happy if he stopped playing. After all, it was part of the ‘charm’ Harry was supposed to develop as a good Slytherin.

Really, the thing that burned him most was the fact _they_ saved him from disappointing Pharrell. It _was_ a bad idea to stop playing for the team, and even worse for him to have casually mentioned his desire to quit in earshot of so many other students...and to start a _yelling_ match about it.

Of course, like with the Stone and dragon incidents, now _everyone_ seemed to know he’d spoken to Wood about leaving. All the other Gryffindor’s were at his throat. Even more so than they had been before—it was like being outed as a parselmouth all over again!

But it was okay—it just meant he needed to try harder. He had to get better. At studying, at learning people and lying and being Slytherin...because that was what Pharrell wanted. In his friend’s absence, Harry had to make some real progress, he had to do it for him! 

People needed to _like_ him. Like Harry. That was important.

So he developed a plan. Pharrell taught him plans were essential to success.

And the plan was to _try_ **_harder_ **.

He poured himself into quidditch as much as he had buried himself under huge books (both curriculum-relevant and obscure). It was a struggle to keep connected to the students around him, trying to hang out with them too, but being popular was just as important as good marks, as quidditch and studying, planning and studying more and practicing, more quidditch and classes… Everything was important. He needed to get it all done. Be everything.

And he was failing…at _everything_. All of it. 

**He is a failure.**

Pharrell was the only one who seemed unaware of that, the only one who didn’t understand what an utter waste of space he was. Just like Uncle Vernon always said he was…just like all his housemates thought now, and what...just generally _everyone thought_.

Even _Snape_ seemed to be concerned, clearly having decided Harry was _worse_ than usual. Even after he managed to brew some exceptional potions, the potions professor would ask him to stay after class and pose exactly one question: ‘Are you feeling quite well, Potter?’

**He’s fine.**

There was nothing wrong with Harry. He was fine! To think Snape even bothered to ask? Dumbledore probably put him up to it! He wasn’t even the only teacher asking about his well being and mentioning the dreaded, ‘Are you alright?’

There was nothing wrong with Harry, bar his own shortcomings. He was fine, just _fine_!

As fine as one could be without Pharrell… Which for Harry meant he was rather not fine at all.

He now dreamt of going to the Chamber of Secrets to get him back. The urge seemed to fill every spare thought he had that wasn’t already dedicated to following Pharrell’s directions. 

Harry now dreamt near-nightly of sneaking out of the dorms, stealing through the halls...of a journey down to the Chamber of Secrets to retrieve his friend. The urge seemed to take up every spare thought he hadn’t already dedicated to following Pharrell’s directions for self-improvement.

If he could just do as Pharrell said, things would be okay…and then, Harry wouldn’t be _alone_ anymore.

He’d been feeling a bit tired lately too...but he couldn’t stop. 

Honestly, he’d been feeling a bit under the weather lately, tired from juggling so many things…but he mustn’t stop. He would skip meals if he had to! He needed to get everything _done_.

He had to keep going.

He _must_.

But...he was just so tired…...and…...

  
  


* * *

Harry opened his eyes groggily, shivering against the cold; his school robes were spring ones, only so effective at keeping him warm.

He manoeuvred himself into a sitting position with some struggle, not recognising where he was at all. It was some strange cave or cavern, or underground chamber…then, before he had decided on the most apt definition, the trail his eyes left across his surroundings lit upon another person.

“Ph- Pharrell?”

_“Harry,”_ the elder boy purred, stopping short of hugging Harry in favour of brushing the back of his fingers against the boy’s scar, briefly pausing at the way it thrummed in response. 

The boy’s eyes darted to Ginny’s body and then back to Pharrell’s red eyes.

“Pharrell... Ginny...why is she here? What are you doing?” 

“Harry…you mean you really don’t know?” Pharrell cooed, mouth twitching from it’s smile...the fact that Harry did not jump up to hug him grated on his nerves. “We can finally be together!”

“Y-you’re... _you_ ...did _this_ ? You’re going to _kill_ her...to—”

“Yes...Harry, I’m going to kill her to be _alive again_...and be with you.” 

Harry shoved Pharrell away, falling backwards to land hard on the wet and grimy stone. “Y-you _can’t_ … _!_ ” His voice shook, there was no way, Pharrell mustn’t hu— “I’ll _ssstop you.”_

The elder boy’s expression darkened with something Harry thought might be…hurt? But as soon as the clouds had come, they dissipated, and Pharrell let out a smooth laugh. 

Not even commenting on the younger’s accidental slip into Parseltongue, Pharrell had a response ready, though he had hoped there would be no need to fight Harry over this. _“I ssshould like to sssee you try, little boy. Honessstly, Harry! I wasss exsspecting sssomewhat of a lesss tepid reception. How have you been during my absssence?_ **_Fine, I asssume?_ ** _”_ Pharrell sneered at the idea that Harry was fine without him...no doubt he didn’t care about his absence at all.

Growling, Harry reached for his wand and tried to think of a good spell. He’d read so many now, and he cou—

It was gone.

Pharrell twirled the missing wand around in his hand as if it were a mere stick. _“Perhapsss this iss what you’re looking for?”_ Pharrel suggested mildly, then after a brief pause started to explain, _“Harry...you mussst be inffformed—I have never been who you believe I am… Of coursse, the perssson you have asssociated with as Pharrell is_ **_me_ ** _, but I bear a different name in hissstory.”_ The boy smirks as he smooths out his black curls, gaze piercing Harry soul-deep. _“You ssssee,”_ Pharrell began, _“my real name—”_ with his stolen wand, the elder boy quickly scrawled his name in the air—fiery and jagged and just not at all tidy like his usual handwriting, _“—isss Tom. Marvolo. Riddle.”_

_“No! Y-you can’t have...have_ **_lied_ ** _to me! Not this whole time. I- I_ **_trusted_ ** _you!!”_

The elder boy waved Harry’s wand again, and the letters overlapped and rearranged themselves right before his eyes. The truth was finally revealed.

“Harry, Voldemort is my past, present...and my future.”

Harry stared at the glowing letters till they burned his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think...he....It was real...it couldn’t be...this...this was all just some dream...some terribly, terrible nightmare...one that he would wake up from soon _—_ and everything would be okay. Harry’s chest ached, and a broken sob crept up in his throat, “Pharrell...y-you can’t be!” Harry cries out, “YOU JUST CAN’T!”

“But _I_ ** _am_**. However...I can easily admit I am very different from the Voldemort this world knows. I have no memories of him or anything he has done past my present age of sixteen. I am **_not_** the man who...killed your parents.” He crouches to better meet Harry’s eyes. “I find that I...need you, Harry. I wish to be with you, to protect you. I hope you understand this really is all for the best,” he implored as if discussing them going their separate ways once more, as they had when Dumbledore was suspicious of the diary, rather than cold-blooded _murder_.

“You... you _MONSTER_!”

Harry screams out a battle cry as he launches himself forwards, slamming straight into Voldemort. The moment he lands all limbs and rage atop the other boy, he’s knocked back by a strong flipendo.

“ ** _Don’t_** make me fight you, little boy. Consider who you are talking to.”

The wind knocked right out of him, Harry struggled to draw in a fresh breath. The world felt fuzzy and wrong—the Chamber span slightly, whether due to his inability to inhale or the sheer scale of the shock he had just faced.

“The process is almost complete, regardless. Just a matter of seconds, really.” Tom—not-Pharrell—smirked. “But really, Harry...I must confess, I had expected better of you.”

Harry barely managed to roll over and recapture his breath, when he heard Tom’s footsteps—sharp and even, authoritative on the Chamber’s wet-flag floor—come to a halt beside him. He fought to heave himself up, to stand against the boy he had thought was his friend, but Tom’s foot pressed into his back, forcing him back down.

“Flugari!” Tom incanted, he wished that it was not necessary but Harry, per usual, was always full of _surprises_. He didn’t want to hurt Harry, nor did he want to be hurt by Harry either...really, this was the only option.

Before Harry could attempt anything else, thick cords shot around him, binding him so tightly he couldn’t move at all. Once he was pacified, Tom levitated him, sitting him upright so he could do nothing but lean into the Slytherin.

“Feel this, Harry?” Tom asked, drawing the boy into a hug. “I become more and more real each second… More _alive_.”

Harry wanted to speak, but he couldn’t manage to utter a word. There was so much he wanted to do—to _un_ do, too—but he couldn’t. There was no way for him to save Ginny, who didn’t deserve to...to — _nobody_ deserved to die like this. But he couldn’t stop it. As that realisation fully set in, he began to sob; uncontrollably—because he couldn’t stop _that_ , either.

“Come now, don’t be like that, Harry,” Tom implores softly, attempting to comfort. “There’s no need.”

“You—” Harry barely got out before he was overcome once more; he continued to struggle against the ropes. “Can’t…”

“I certainly can...and I certainly will, and _I have_ ,” he purred into the younger boy’s ear. “Look at me, Harry,” he instructed.

Harry shifted his head as far away from the other as he could, even though it put it at a horrible, awkward angle that hurt like all hell— but he had to get away from Tom.

With a hiss, the Slytherin grabbed his face with both hands and wrenched his head back round so their eyes met. There were barely a few inches between them when Tom murmured, “Oh...how I have longed to stare into your precious green eyes with my own... What rare jewels for one of such rare value.”

Something broke in Harry, then. Perhaps it was his hope, he speculated as Tom leaned down to bestow a gentle, lingering kiss upon his lips.

Everything else stopped... The fear, the horror, Ginny and the Chamber and how Pharrell had tricked him and wasn’t _Pharrell_ at all— It all stopped spinning around him, making it seem he viewed the world through murky water…like watching a memory in a Pensieve. Just like he imagined from descriptions he’d read of them, studying for... Pharrell. And inexplicably dizzied by this halt, Harry didn’t fight back when Tom’s tongue ventured into his mouth, running over his teeth to meet his own tongue and play against it. 

He let it happen, just like he let Ginny die.

The younger boy only whimpered in response..but he suddenly jumped at the feeling of Tom’s tongue, lips, and hands rapidly _warming_ so they almost seemed for a moment to _scorch_ Harry and—

“Ah, It’s finished. The process is complete.”

He had just managed to claw his way back up into the sober world when Tom parted from him with a barely audible whisper: “I _love_ you, Harry. Everything I do is for the best...the best for the world, for all of magic kind...and what is best for you...Because I _love_ you.” 

“I _hate_ you,” Harry muttered dully, but his heart wasn’t really in it—he was more furious than anything...and broken by his own failures.

This time, Tom smiles broadly. “Oh but Harry, that will only make the chase so much more fun.” He leans down so his breath fogs up the boy’s glasses, and the smile transfigures into a smirk. “I could do so much more now than just _kiss_ you…but I won’t. Now’s hardly the time for that. You _will_ love me sooner or later, Harry—I mean to make sure of it. For now, though—” he kissed the boy’s forehead “—I must go. Remember—we are connected, Harry. No matter where we are, we are always together. Our souls are meant for one another.”

Tom brushed aside Harry’s fringe to get another look at his scar; he planted a kiss atop it, then carefully rose to his feet, gently laying the boy down on the dirty floor—it was cold and damp, but he wouldn’t be there long...Harry’s discomfort was undesirable but regretfully necessary. 

“Someone will arrive to retrieve you soon,” he assured the boy. “I’ll have Hedwig take care of it for you, and…I’ll see you in our dreams, Harry.”

With those parting words, he plucked up the real diary from the ground and walked echoing off into one of the pipes, abandoning Harry lying bound and unable to move right next to… Ginny. Or what was left of her, at least, her slowly cooling body...it wasn’t really her once she was...was _gone_.

Harry was uncertain how long he laid there. Eventually, Fawkes came to haul him out the Chamber and up through the girl’s bathroom, eventually depositing him where Dumbledore and several other professors waited. He couldn’t look any of them in the eye—not as they untied him (with a simple, fourth-year spell he ought to be able to _do,_ wand or no wand), nor as they, talking over one another, questioned him on how he had come to be found in such a state. 

This was all his fault.

After failing to understand or answer their words he spoke:

“Ginny’s— Ginny...she’s dead.”

There was a commotion between the professors, but Harry hardly understood a word… His head was only garbled nonsense. He stared down at the ground, tracing lines of moss between the old stones, struggling to breathe as every moment he ever shared with Phar—Tom…with _Tom_...flashed through his mind in a blur of colour and lies and regret...guilt and just— He got Ginny _killed_. _He_ **_killed_** _Ginny._

All of his foolish decisions leading up to tonight… _He_ made Voldemort’s resurrection possible, he put Ginny in danger...and she _died_ . Because of _him_.

At some point he’d started to sob again, curling in on himself.

Dumbledore said something indiscernible, grabbing Harry and helping him get up. He then pressed a hand to Harry’s back, turning his shell-shocked form to the left, the most direct route to the infirmary. Though his legs capitulated to the non-verbal command, Harry barely registered a thing as he began to stumble along the hall.

Once they arrived Harry was seated on a bed, still in a daze, trying to push away Madam Pomfrey as she attempted to attend to him.

“Harry, it has been a dreadfully long night. It’s almost dawn, and I think it’s high time that you let our dear mediwitch take care of you and rest.” Harry blinked, and brought down his arms. He...wasn’t in the mood to fight anymore. Dumbledore did not wait for Harry to respond knowing he probably could not even form the words, so he turned and left with a sigh.

“Any pain Mr. Potter?”

“I’m not hurt. The only who got...hurt was……” Harry trailed off, the only thing he could see was Ginny's body.

He felt someone tapping his shoulder bring him back to life, “Mr. Potter...I know. Here.”

He took the cup she handed him. “What is it?”

“Dreamless sleep, and a little something to help with the effects of possession.” Pomfrey gave him an encouraging smile, and without much hesitation, Harry drank it all. He wished he could dreamlessly sleep forever. “That’s it, Harry, come on lay down…”

She helped him lie down and soon after he was situated he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 Summary:  
> Harry trusted Pharrel so much only for that trust to be shattered in the Chamber of Secretes. He tried so hard for Pharrell...for everyone. But trying meant nothing when Ginny was now dead and Harry is truly alone.

  
  
  


**_CHAPTER II: Through Dark Pools_**

* * *

The moment he heard about Harry from that girl, Tom _knew_ he had to use him for his plans.

It would be simply perfect to take the legend and power—what should be his—that Harry Potter had somehow achieved with an absent effort—and twist its image. Erase, reshape and _shatter_ the icon of Voldemort's defeat...until the golden boy, slayer of You-Know-Who, “Saviour of the Wizarding World,” was seen as the fallen one… 

The Boy-Who-Lived, killing mudbloods and bringing back the very man he had destroyed, and who had given him that namesake in the first place...

It was just too good to be true.

He couldn’t ask for a better person to die resurrecting him.

And so he had that girl sit him on the little boy’s bed. There, he lay in wait for the moment when his so-called defeater would return and write within his pages—unable to resist a blank space, just as any Gryffindor who saw something unbegun as a challenge to begin. 

To take his magic and his life from him and be reborn into this world.

He abandoned all those plans as soon as the boy touched his soft leather cover.

Tom could feel the way he tingled as the boy touched him. The soft current of magic that wanted to suck him in, a gentle hum. It was nothing like the girl’s. No—she couldn’t do that...she could only helplessly be drained by him and slowly waste away, leaving nothing but a bitter taste on his palate. 

But Harry...oh, _Harry_. 

He was simply the _perfect_ person to syphon magic from, the vessel of Tom's rebirth. This plan, his magic, everything was something he could easily taste, savour as a fine wine… There was no need for him to consume the boy right away; Tom could rest and bask in his magic a while...drift in its comfortable embrace...

A day turned into two... Then three passed...four, five... And more.

**Yet Harry still hadn’t written in him.**

Tom _wanted_ Harry...to...write in him… Well, he wanted to feel more of the boy's magic. Wanted it to flow into him and pulse around and…Harry's magic was too special to be squandered. He would use no other's in his resurrection——

**No** —he wanted to taste Harry's magic for as long as possible. Perhaps keep him as a pet, even. If he were powerful enough to destroy Tom's older half, he was truly unique. The boy was certainly worth keeping and bringing to his side. It wouldn't be too hard to manipulate the boy into doing whatever he wanted. He could even make Harry love and adore him, be devoted _only_ to him. _He_ was the only one who deserved to feel Harry's magic like this... 

...and for more than as merely a method of being reborn into this world. Yes, Harry was certainly worth more than that. More than anything, Tom just wanted to be near him, to feel that soft pulse of magic, the gentle hum of belonging. 

Therefore, Tom was thankful he never deemed it necessary to sever his connexion with the girl. Luckily, she was in Gryffindor—at night, their relative proximity allowed him to continue draining her. While it was slower to deal with the tiresome girl, whose magic was dull and fragile in comparison to Harry's, it was better than using the boy to such ends. 

He would never dare do it to _Harry_.

It would be a terrible shame to snuff out such a _bright_ light. Something so pure and warm... It was nothing like himself, and strangely...he liked it.

Eventually, Tom noticed the way his soul and magic hummed in near unison with Harry's. It was a beautiful thing... _so beautiful._ He wondered if the boy felt the same way. He _had_ to...Tom _knew_ he had to because they were yin and yang. A perfect harmony. Some light crept through Tom's darkness, and there was some darkness threaded through Harry's light. 

They flowed together rhythmically, in a harmony of give and take that beckoned one another forth...

And yet even so, despite the way their magic strived for coalescence, it still took a long time for Harry to write within his pages.

Maybe...somehow, impossible though it seemed...Harry didn't feel the same way Tom did...didn’t see the way his magic danced over Tom, nor perceive the ways in which Tom tried to call to him… But how could that _be_ ? With the way their magic wove and sang and caressed, how could Harry not _feel_ that? Maybe...he _couldn't_.

Tom didn’t understand why that made him _angry_ . So very angry at being ignored, at the idea he was forgotten or perhaps even _lost_.

But really, what made him angriest was to feel this pull and attraction to—about Harry, and receive _nothing_ in return. All he had become was a _forgotten_ and _unwanted_ _journal_ . It was hardly an unusual way for him to feel, not when he was sent back to live in the orphanage every year. But this lasted far longer than their ignoring, and this hurt far more...because to be deemed unworthy of attention by _Harry_ , the boy whose magic rolled over him like the warmth of a fire in winter...it was...it was—

The ignorance of muggles _made sense_ ; it was the only things muggles were capable of. Their stupidity made them lash out at or ignore Tom, but Harry... ** _Harry_** had no reason to ignore him like this.

It was _maddening._ And...it hurt.

Maybe his longing to be touched, to be held in the boy’s hands, made the wait feel that much longer and more painful? How long had it been—weeks? Tom would make sure that when he took Harry as his pet, the boy would feel the _same_ —lost, forgotten, _distraught_ to ever be without him. He’d leave the boy alone just to watch him cry out for Tom...and have no one answer.

Then it all changed. Harry’s quill daubed oddly amusing, awful penmanship across his pages, and...all was forgotten.

**_Friday 7th October, 1992_ **

When those first words appeared, Tom abandoned that roiling storm of anger and pain instantly, all falling still. The way Harry’s magic rolled over him transformed the skies to honey-hued clouds sailing through a soft, warm sunset.

**_‘Today, Professor Snape took ten points off Gryffindor for me ‘answering a question wrong’ even though I knew the answer! He just didn’t give me enough time to say anything! And with how I worded that, I feel like Hermione, but_ ** **_she’s right_ ** **_, he does that to her nearly every time she opens her mouth! He’s a bloody awful teacher. I don’t understand why he’s here. It’s not like he seems to like it or anything._ **

_‘He sounds like a horrible man.’_

There was a long pause that made Tom’s heart skip a beat.

He didn’t scare the boy off, did he—No—no...Harry was still close, holding him...they were touching. Besides, from what the girl told him, the boy didn’t know enough about the magical world to be wary of a talking book… He couldn’t have left... _not yet_.

**_‘You can talk?’_ **

The ink flowing through his pages made Tom relax. Now time for what he had planned—Harry would be _his._ No one else deserved the boy’s company and magic. Tom was the only one worthy of his presence and the only one who would ever have his Harry…they _couldn’t_.

_‘Of course. I am Pharrell McInnis... You are?’_

Tom didn’t need an answer. He already knew.

**_‘Harry Potter.’_ **

This was the start of Tom’s obsession. He was sure of it. 

He never understood before what it meant to _love_ , but if he had to say, it would be _this_ . Not that _this_ was _that_. 

The very idea of it made Tom want to laugh, it was completely ridiculous. He was incapable of love. Harry was just his and no one else’s and Tom would make certain of that. 

Harry was Tom’s property. 

The boy needed no friends, lovers, or even acquaintances. 

No. 

He only needed Tom. 

He would only need _Lord Voldemort._

Then his musing led him to an idea so odd it startled Tom—that maybe _this_ was what it felt like to need another person.

This _need_ , this _desire_ , this feeling that was... _lust?_ No, it was certainly not that. Lust was not something he quite felt for the boy...besides, Harry was too young. Was it _companionship_ ? Obviously not, Tom had never needed company, and he never would...plus, what he saw Harry as was washed out by so simple and common a title as _companion_.

This _want_ to keep Harry locked away and all to himself was clearly _something_ …but perhaps merely the desire to _own_ Harry, to steal him away as Tom had so many other coveted things (it would never be enough).

He was almost afraid it would drive him mad. 

Yes...this need, this desire, this painful longing...this... _not-_ love (because the very word sent his mind into a near rage) would fade with time. Of that he was sure. All his passions and longings not directly conducive to his path to power had faded with time. It was something he had experienced occur over and over again, so it was undeniable he would be abandoning Harry sooner or later. The boy was vital now, but only Lord Voldemort could live forever. It was a mere matter of time before he tired of Harry. 

Tom was positive the more he learned of him, the more he would undoubtedly come to dislike the boy and once again turn his mind towards bringing about his death. Because...Harry didn’t matter. The boy was nothing more than a fleeting desire; a shiny toy to be played with; an intriguing puzzle to be pondered, solved and left behind once it had no secrets left to uncover. Nothing. Really _nothing_ , in the grand scheme of things… He meant to make sure of it.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Tom slowly came to learn more about Harry. He learned how the boy mirrored him in so many ways, but in some others ( _vital_ others) was so very different.

Like the way he loved—Harry loved treacle tarts and pudding when Tom could hardly stand their taste, their over-cloying sweetness...to his favourite colour—red, just like Tom’s. This strange dichotomy of love, hate and indifference spread to everything—food, political views, how to dress, _everything_ —even the silly musings and ideas he had about the strangest of things. 

Tom found their strange dichotomy...rather endearing, actually.

He would often wait patiently, yearning for Harry’s next words to appear. To hear more of those thoughts of his ideas about the world.

But...he never expected _this_ :

**_‘Pharrell? I can tell you anything, right? And you won’t be upset or hate me?’_ **

Tom had long ago come to the conclusion there was nothing Harry could reasonably do that would cause him to hate the boy, or be upset with him? For a period of time? And—well, Tom still couldn’t decide whether he hated or needed Harry half the time. Anything Harry decided to do, Tom would try to support him in it, or at least prevent his trademark Gryffindor stupidity (he had long been regaled by the story of first year).

_‘Harry...you could tell me you killed a man and I wouldn’t be bothered. I’d only ask_ _why_ _(it would surely be justified).’_

There was a long pause that left Tom fretting that he said the wrong things, came on too fast, or...why did he have to bring up _murder_ ! Such an idiot! The boy was so Gryffindor, it would probably scare him off! They were all so _touchy_ with their morals and chivalry.

But then—

**_‘Thanks, Pharrell.’_ **

Following came another excruciatingly long pause, and Tom felt Harry’s magic begin to jostle against his own, turning over and over, kneading like thick, sour-tasting dough that tasted like...fear?

**_‘You know every year I get sent back to live with my Muggle relatives.’_ **

Harry’s magic spun about, lashing out and retracting into itself in jagged turns, turbulent in a way it had never been before. Usually, it would twitch with slight emotions Tom could pick up on, yet never truly _feel_ . He ate up the change greedily, already craving _more_ —what he sensed was _never_ enough.

But this...Tom felt he knew what came next. If he had a throat, it would have tightened in dread...he had felt this emotion before…

He felt like he already had enough of... _this_.

_‘Really? Shouldn’t you have been put with a wizarding family?’_

**_‘Dumbledore says it’s about blood wards. I have to go to my aunt—my mum’s sister. I know it’s safer for me there, but I hate it.’_ **

But what sickened him the most was that Dumbledore allowed this to happen to his supposed “golden boy”—Tom was _certain_ that Dumbledore knew. After all, he must have known about how the Muggles treated Tom. He simply just didn’t care. Or worse, he thought it was for the best because of some blood wards.

The bloody wards would not keep him safe from a threat on the inside...from the _Muggles_.

_‘Why do you hate it, Harry?’_

Tom felt... _something_ . A heavy twisting settled in his gut, reminding him of times he came close to being hurt. Fear, maybe. Adrenaline? He dangled over a precipice, and Tom almost didn’t want to hear Harry’s answer; he wanted to not care what it was, to just ignore it, to not respond and go on pretending this conversation had never occurred. He wanted to not do anything, _feel_ anything...but that wouldn’t change the truth.

**_‘They hurt me.’_ **

Tom’s heart twisted into knots, and his blood boiled. This was something that he could not ignore...this was something that he _would not_ ignore. Those...those _Muggles..._ they had hurt what was **his**.

_‘How_ **_dare_ ** _they.’_

_‘How_ **_DARE_** _THEY’_

When he regained a physical form, he would _destroy_ those muggles. He’d have them on their knees even as they begged for death, for mercy...and Tom would never give it. They would be tortured until their pathetic minds were broken and they could no longer even find the capacity, enough dregs of humanity, to form words begging for their release from his revenge. Then—and only then—would he kill them. Only when they were too broken to keep feeling the pain he inflicted upon them would he finally dispose of their worthless carcasses (because by then they would only be a hindrance, wastes of space...more so than they already were)...

But his plans could wait for now, simmer and stew in the background. Now, he needed to be there for Harry. He... _wanted_ to give Harry what he himself never had. He had to... _help_ him. To fix this...

_‘Have you told anyone, Harry?’_

**_‘I told Dumbledore—or tried to, anyway. Last year, I asked to stay at Hogwarts. He wouldn’t let me.’_ **

_Of course…of course_ he wouldn’t. That callous fool would do the same thing over again—even hurting his golden boy. How many had there been since Tom, of magical children undeserving of the misfortune of being forced to live with hateful Muggles? Had Dumbledore ignored them all, or was Tom a special case? Was _Harry_ ? Putting the Boy-Who-Lived in such a position...to—to be _beaten_ by _Muggles…_ It was unacceptable.

The old Muggle-loving professor probably thought it was all for the greater good, that Harry would learn to love Muggles and their world through living with them, the loathly fool. Had the man learned nothing? Tom knew enough of Lord Voldemort’s history (who he almost was...who he would still become...but _better_ ) to know the man should know better than to let Muggles abuse another young student. 

Maybe the fool would prefer history to repeat itself.

_‘The same thing happened to me. I told him and asked to stay...but he said no. Even though I made it clear my...family was unhappy about magic. They thought I was a freak. Punished me for it. Muggles will_ **_always_ ** _fear what they don’t understand.’_

**_‘My Uncle does the same. I don’t think he’s ever called me by my name. Only ‘boy’ or ‘freak’ or ‘that one’, and he… He does other things, too. What he does, he_ ** _—’_

The handwriting became shaky, as if Harry were telling him this while walking down the stairs. His words paused in indecision, and it had Tom’s gut churning as an ache settled heavy within it...dread...his _heart_ was full of dread. Fear for whatever truth may yet to come from Harry, and he—

Tom froze for a moment.

His... _heart_? 

He...he needed to know. Needed to fix this… _What_ did Harry’s uncle do? Surly not——

‘ _—_ **_he locks me in the cupboard under the stairs, and sometimes he—He beats me with his belt. I don’t even know what I did wrong sometimes. They’ll make me go back. I don’t want to. I can’t—I’_ ** _—_

Tom relaxed but not much. At least Harry was able to retain some innocence. Tom did not want to know what he would do if _that_ had happened.

_‘Harry...you don’t have to go back. They can’t make you stay. You should run away, and if they take you back, just leave again. You don’t have to stay with them._ **_Please_ ** **_don’t_ ** _stay with them anymore. Run away, like I did.’_

**_‘Run away?’_ **

It would be the perfect answer to Harry’s problems, just as it had been the answer to his own. If Harry ran away, Tom could protect him...he could save him from the _filthy Muggles_.

_‘Yes. I did it, and they never made me go back. It was so much better after that. I packed everything I owned into my school trunk and just left. It really was that easy. You should pack some food from them, steal it if you have to. Just like they stole food from you.’_

**_‘And I don’t have to stay with them anymore?’_ **

_‘No, and I’ll be there for you—always. Just take me with you, and you’ll never be alone. I will never abandon you.’_

**_‘Thank you, Pharrell. Thank you.’_ **

Tom watched as the ink was smeared and pitter-pattered with tears. He could feel Harry’s magic cry out in a sick combination of relief and fear, and how Tom’s tried to mimic its own cries. It took every ounce of his will to ignore their siren call of lament.

_‘I care about you, Harry. Please stay safe for me? I don’t think you’re safe with those Muggles. Please, promise me you won’t choose to stay with them.’_

**_‘I’m not sure about this. But I’ll try. I’ll leave if they hurt me again, okay?’_ **

_‘Good, Harry. And thank you for telling me. If you’re fine with it, could you tell me what they did?’_

**_‘No, I don’t want to—’_ **

_‘Please, for me Harry?’_

_Tom could feel the way Harry’s magic clenched in dread._

**_‘Okay. If you want me to, I can try. They treated me like a slave. I cooked, cleaned, gardened—and did everything, really. That’s all—the worst of it. My uncle didn’t hurt me often, really.’_ **

Harry’s magic curled in on itself, trying to roll and hide— _withhold_ . If it was any other situation, Tom would have laughed at it. Harry had _just_ told him all that they did. Why try to walk things back? Why lie? _Why did Harry feel the need to lie to him?_

_‘Harry. Honestly, you_ **_can not_ ** _expect me to believe you. You already told me that_ **_they_ ** _lock you in a_ **_cupboard_ ** _. That he_ **_beats you with his belt_ ** _.’_

Tom regretted his harsh words instantly, but there was no taking them back. He couldn’t take them back, and now he had to feel Harry’s magic roll with hurt, embarrassment and pain that he’d caused. But just as Harry’s magic rolled, some warmth returned to it.

**_‘You actually care, don’t you?’_ **

_‘Of course I do! Why would that ever be a question?’_

**_‘I don’t know. I just...Do you want to hear a story now?’_ **

Tom would have grimaced if he could. He hated the fact that Harry was avoiding telling him something, or the fact that he had just tried to _lie_ to him.

Focusing on Harry's magic, trying to feel the way it rolled with emotions, he wanted to know why...but he came up with nothing. Just a sad, hurt warmth, a needing thing crying and begging for comfort—that Tom could give.

_‘Yes, please. But if you need a break, stop. I can wait. I will always be here for you, ready to listen. You know that. I’m here for you, and I’ll_ _never_ _abandon you.’_

**_‘I ~~lo~~ like you a lot, Pharrell. Thank you_ ** — **_for being here. No one’s ever been there for me like you have. Thank you.’_ **

Tom felt smug at the unfinished word. Of course, that was exactly how he wanted Harry to feel.

**_‘I get punished a lot for not finishing my chores. They have me cook the meals. I was— Dudley and I were running late for school, but he insisted on breakfast and demanded that I cook. I’d turned the heat up to high, thinking it would cook faster, but—’_ **

Tom’s world flashed, full of color and life and Harry’s magic, foggy and beautiful—but it quickly came into focus He was on a small stool, standing in front of a stove, trying to cook eggs and bacon.

Then it hit him. _This was Harry’s memory._

“Hurry up, Harry! You’ll make me late!” came the most grating voice Tom had ever heard. It belonged to a fat boy, a filthy Muggle boy, who stood behind him, continuously nudging Harry with his elbow, as if that would make him any faster. 

The anything-but-gentle nudges made Harry uneasy on his feet, wobbly—weak, he felt _weak_. Tom felt shaky and tired. The sensation flooded in, reminding him of when they’d had to live on rations in Wool’s—

“I’m trying, Dudley! Stop it—you’re pushing me—” 

The next thing felt was the hand shoving against his side, pushing, and then a searing pain in his left hand, and a howl of pain.

Tom stumbled back on the stool and fell, hitting his head against the table and landing roughly on his arm. Everything flashed with pain. His head hurt, his arm hurt, his hand—he peeked to see his hand. It was bright red, already starting to blister. With a pathetic whimper, he pulled his hand close to him.

“What is going on here?” It was a snipitty voice of a woman that caused him to flinch. Harry stayed on the floor as her heels clicked closer. She didn’t bother looking at him, instead focusing on the pan and hissing, “You burnt the food!”

“I’m sorry—I just—”

“No buts!” she snapped, grabbing him by his hurt arm, looking at his hand. “And you even managed to hurt yourself…” She turned to the pudgy boy and said in a sweet tone, “Go get in the car. I’ll be there in just a moment, Duddikins.”

Dudley nodded and walked off, sad to not be having breakfast, though it would probably do him more good than harm.

“I can’t take you to school with a burn like that, boy,” she said sharply, “If Vernon was here, I’d have him deal with you! You’ll be spending the day in the cupboard. Maybe then you’ll learn.”

Harry started to phase out from the pain in his hand and arm as she half-dragged him to his ‘room’. She dropped him in and locked the door. He struggled to breathe as her feet clacked away.

They left him there all day without food or water. At some point, Harry had started to dissociate. He couldn't sleep due to the pain. He was brought out of his stupor when the door to the cupboard opened. Petunia stood there. “Let’s see if you can cook breakfast properly this time.”

Harry got up with a nod, noticing how his hand was no longer hurt. He paled. He couldn’t let his aunt see that; they’d be upset that more of his freakishness had happened. Tom then heard a thought ring out in the memory, _‘I deserve it.’_

Tom wanted to tell him that it wasn’t true, but no matter how hard he tried, this body, this memory, was not his own; he couldn’t change anything.

Each time he was told another story, he was forced to relive the memories. Reliving Harry’s memories…of what _those Muggles_ did to him...hurt. It hurt so much more than what had happened at Wool’s. They would leave him be after he hurt them back, but Harry _wouldn’t fight back_. Why couldn’t he just stand up for himself? Why was there no one else standing up for Harry?

Tom couldn’t bear the idea of not being there to protect Harry as those disgusting Muggles beat, starved, and hurt him. They would suffer a _painful death._ Tom rarely made promises, and he never made one that did not intend to keep.

How the boy would whimper and beg for them to stop, but they never would; instead, they would laugh… The fat man, whom he’d come to learn of as Vernon Dursley, would just lift up his arm holding the belt and bring it back down, striking at Harry. Blow after blow till the boy’s magic helped him retreat into his mind and ignore the pain.

After that happened, the pig would throw him into the cupboard, leaving only Harry’s magic to treat his wounds.

But reliving those horrific memories was worth it.

It was worth it because Harry now had someone to talk to, and Tom knew what he’d endured. Tom vowed that Harry would never suffer like that again. He would never have to deal with all that pain, the agony of not knowing what you did wrong, slowly falling into the belief that it was _your fault_.

It also offered Tom the opportunity to display to Harry exactly why Muggles should know their place, and that it was wizards who should show it, put them in it. Tom would ensure they paid sevenfold for every hurt they had levelled upon magical children—not only for himself, but for Harry as well. 

No. Harry was not going to suffer like that any longer. Not now that he was Tom’s.

And still, even having encouraged Harry to abandon the filthy dwelling of his wretched relatives, Tom would also make sure the moment those _animals_ were in his grasp, they would regret everything they did to Harry. They would not get off the hook just because their days of hurting Harry were done.

All the pain that Harry had been forced to endure was unforgivable, and Harry would suffer the lasting consequences. Tom needed to fix that—he _had to_ fix this—but he must be patient. He had to be there for Harry, at least for right now. It would be a bad idea to rush his plans. No, that would only lead to mistakes and further suffering for Harry. At least he was safe in Hogwarts.

And then he learned about Harry’s ability to speak Parseltongue.

He had rejoiced at first. He was glad that he could cherish this gift like Tom did, and maybe even talk to the Basilisk about the Founders and Salazar Slytherin. They could even talk to _each other_ in the tongue, hissing sweet nothings into each others’ ears…oh, how Tom _longed_ to hear Harry’s voice hiss in the language of snakes.

Harry...was made for him. It was a fact, as far as he was concerned. Everything was aligned to say as such: his magic, the perfect other half to Tom’s own magical core, the Parseltongue—and so much _more_.

Oh...this fact about Harry was one among a growing list of reasons why Tom must have him. In fact, Harry already belonged to him. He always had, from the moment he picked up the journal and wrote... Why Harry was a gift from whatever god may exist, specifically to Tom. 

Then, he remembered exactly which House Harry was in.

It seemed that the revelation of possessing such a gift was not as pleasant as it should have been for Harry. He wished Harry was in Slytherin. There he would have been worshiped as a Parselmouth, like Tom had been...

_Bloody Gryffindors_ . Stating that someone was a dark wizard because they could talk to snakes. Tom knew Harry would never go _‘dark’_ ; he was just too pure for that. It was obvious in the warm crackle of his magic, in the way it pulled in and hugged Tom, comforting him and warming his soul—something he wanted to break, and yet at the same time...wanted to preserve. 

What a... _strange_ dichotomy of desires. 

His housemates’ idea that he was now _dark_ was nothing but foolish. It seemed Tom had to rescue Harry from them too. It seemed that the boy knew nothing but how to get into trouble, but Tom found his Gryffindor nature somewhat endearing. Knowing Harry wouldn’t do it, he’d have to save him and kill anyone who would dare hurt Harry. But it seemed like everyone wanted to hurt him currently—everyone but Tom. Harry was only safe with himself. Anyone else was a danger, and as such, Tom would have to take care of them. 

Tom wanted Harry to be safe, safe from everyone who had hurt him. From anyone who _would_ hurt him. It was going to be a grand undertaking to make that happen; after all, Harry was a Gryffindor, ready to throw himself headfirst into any hint of danger, the idiot.

Tom would protect Harry, even if it was from himself—his other half who had originally tried to kill Harry. What a grave sin that had been. Tom had no doubt that it was Voldemort’s own magic that lashed out and prevented Harry from dying. Their magic was too perfect together—Harry’s too pure and bright, the perfect match to his older self’s.

Voldemort must have known, or seen what Tom did now, and decided that Harry was a danger because of it. The absolute fool.

He would need to take care of the wraith before he started to cause problems.

  
  


* * *

No matter what Tom thought about, it all led back to one person, whether Tom liked it or not. All thoughts led to _Harry_.

Plans to defeat his older wraith self and become the primary version, as he rightfully should, and protect _Harry._

Conquer Britain and rule over the magical as its rightful leader, so _Harry_ would never have to know further suffering.

Kill Dumbledore so _Harry_ wouldn’t suffer that man’s manipulations that only served to hurt _Harry_.

Harry _._

_Harry._

**_Harry_ ** _._

**_Harry_ **was all Tom could think about. It was driving him mad, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Everything he was doing was for Harry. Killing Ginny—sure, it would hurt him, but in the long run, he’d be safe. His Harry would be safe.

He had planned it perfectly.

Ginny would die. Tom would leave and reunite with his Death Eaters, prepare for the coming war, and wait for Harry to finish this year. Then, when he was in his _lovely home_ , House Number Four of Privet Drive, he’d come to Harry’s rescue, whether he ran away or decided to stay and be _beaten_. 

The moment the boy left, running from his uncle or his pig of a cousin, Tom would be there. He would. The moment they decided to lay their hands on him, he’d be there to deliver justice to those _filthy_ Muggles.

He’d offer Harry a safe place to stay for the summer, or perhaps longer if Hogwarts was a danger as well.

Whether Harry accepted or not didn’t matter; Harry not being safe simply wasn’t an option.

**Harry will be safe.**

He cared for Harry—cared for him too much to leave him to those wolves. Just imagining Harry hurt brought back that pit in his stomach that was full of dread and a desire to help. He... _cared_. Yet the very idea of caring for anything outside of its use for him was strange in Tom’s mind. The idea was...foreign. The word for it at the tip of his tongue.

_But he did not want to say it_.

It made him want to laugh _and scream_.

He _loved_ Harry. The way his magic was a gentle roar that washed over him as Harry wrote in him...it made him want...want every bit of Harry, his mind, his soul, his body...everything.

He had to acknowledge these feelings, this emotion that was so foreign to him, yet so beautiful…

He...was in love. It made him angry—and yet it made him smile, too.

He, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was _in love_ with Harry James Potter.

_Voldemort is in love with the one who killed him._

The irony of that statement was not lost to him, but it would be so much more ironic if Harry grew to love him too. If Harry was in love with Voldemort, the man who killed his parents...and gave him his famous scar.

* * *

  
  
  


After Dumbledore found out about him, he had to act faster than he had originally wished. The school year only had one month left, and he didn’t want to leave Harry alone for that long or risk the school being closed. But it didn’t matter. Pushing up his plans, instead of leaving Harry alone, seemed a reasonable trade.

So he used his unsevered link with Ginny to compel the girl to the bathroom, got her close enough to where he could possess her, and started to drain her. Once it was done, he possessed both Ginny and Harry and brought them to the Chamber of Secrets.

He’d been so close to the boy for so long, he was much easier to possess than the girl. Plus, Harry fit over him like a glove, their magic so complementary to each other that it just felt _right_.

When he took control over Harry’s body, there were no awkward jolts to hide as he moved, nor was there any soreness that came from being in a body not your own. It felt...like it was his body all along—warm, real, tactile... _his_. It was like his own body, perfectly mirrored, but so...unique in its own precious ways.

Of course it did. Only Harry was a match to Tom’s brilliance. He’d expect nothing less from him.

This...was Harry’s body, but it was also _Tom’s_ body.

Finishing his preparations, he laid Harry in the chamber, a good distance from the girl, and waited. It was rather nice to watch Harry sleep, with that peaceful look on his face, and those large round glasses that gave him such an...innocent look to him.

Soon he would be more than just a journal.

Tom laughed.

He’d be flesh and bone. He would be able to use a wand again. He would once more have a physical presence in this world outside of a memory preserved in a diary for 50 years.

He could touch Harry, trace his fingers across his lips, kiss him...Taste his mouth, and play with his tongue… Oh, he could go even further than _that_.

But he doubted Harry would be ready for it. He was not even old enough yet. Sadly, Tom would have to wait till Harry was fifteen, maybe fourteen. Tom would be able to tell when Harry was ready, and Harry would be able to as well.

But he couldn’t help but imagine it.

Getting on top of Harry, pushing down his arms, and slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt...leaving his chest exposed, and trailing his hand down slowly, painfully slowly, so that he could hear the boy whine with need and anticipation…

It would be so _wonderful_.

Harry stirred from his sleep.

Tom would have to imagine that later.

A kiss would be fine for now...

* * *

  
  


After all was said and done, Tom got up. He grimaced, looking at Harry’s tied-up form as the boy sobbed.

Harry looked so absolutely pathetic. It almost made Tom wonder what he’d ever seen in the boy, but he quickly brushed those thoughts aside. Everything about Harry was made for him: the gentle hum of his magic, the Parseltongue, and even the way his body fit perfectly over Tom as he possessed Harry… It was simply a fact that Harry belonged to him and was _perfect_ for him.

The boy was just being overly emotional, like a _Gryffindor_. Tom sighed. Harry had said the Hat wanted to put him in Slytherin.

Staring at his weak, sobbing form, Tom couldn’t help but feel _angry_ . Clearly, Harry did not miss him at all, not with _that_ cold welcome he gave. After all that Tom had done...Harry was so absolutely ungrateful, it stung. It...felt like a betrayal. If it was anyone else in the boy’s position, Tom would have killed them long ago for _such insolence_ …

But—Harry would understand _soon_. 

Tom would make sure of that. He would teach Harry of his wrongs, and Harry would not do such a thing again. _Because Harry belonged with Tom...anything else was simply not possible._ Harry would know _exactly_ what he should act like, and how _thankful_ he really should be. 

Then it came to Tom. The perfect way to remind Harry of how great Tom was. He’d have to leave him with... _those Muggles_.

As much as Tom hated the idea, it was the only way to show Harry how thankful he should be. Then he could come back, and they both could forget all about this disastrous reunion and how Harry had _ruined_ it.

It could be forgotten and forgiven. Harry’s little misstep was just that… a misstep… and Tom could right him on the path he’d made again.

Tom, however, didn’t understand why Harry was upset. To begin with, he could understand the lying part, but not _Ginny_ . After all, he was here now, and he had revealed the truth of who he was, and they could be _together_. 

Harry could now be with “Pharrell McInnis,” the one he _loved_ , so why did Harry try to attack him? Tom had revealed that he was Voldemort. That would give anyone a shock—but for Harry to try to hurt him?

His future self had made plenty of mistakes, growing sloppier and sloppier as the years passed, but certainly, Harry could understand that they were _not_ the same person.

He’d have to make him understand that he was not the one who had killed his parents all those years ago. No. Tom was a sane man, nothing like that nearly mindless wraith that was...left after that night. _He_ was the real Voldemort. The righteous one, the one who was going to bring the wizarding world to new heights instead of tearing it down and breaking it.

He was _Lord Voldemort_ , and he was going to _save_ the wizarding world.

So why couldn’t Harry see that? He was Pharrell the whole time. He did not act differently from his normal self, unlike what he did with the girl.

Harry got to see him for who he really was!

Not all the manipulations and masks he wore to get what he wanted. Harry saw _him._ Hary _loved_ him. He could feel it in the way his magic would reach out to him! So what had changed now? His name? The loss of a girl whom he barely knew? A girl who, no doubt, would only serve to cause him troubles in the future?

Tom hissed. _No matter._

Harry would see things his way. He just needed some time to adjust to that and Tom. He’d learn all he needed to know once Tom left. There was a Muggle saying he’d heard when he was young—“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Perhaps all Harry needed was a little distance, and maybe a little pain. 

Once Tom left, the other students at Hogwarts would blame Harry for this, and Harry, precious little Harry, would no doubt blame himself—the one thing Tom couldn’t avoid in his plans. Hurting Harry just a little was necessary—not something he wished to make a habit of, but a necessary evil.

At the end of the school year, Dumbledore would no doubt try to send Harry back to the wretched Muggle family, and then...Tom would rescue him, the brief rift in their relationship would be sealed, and Harry would be his. And Dumbledore would have no one to blame but himself.

So Tom kissed Harry’s forehead, knowing it would be a while till he saw the love of his life again outside of dreams—but there was only so much dreams could do. He wouldn’t be able to feel Harry’s magic as vividly, or touch his warm body, or taste his sweet mouth.

Tom partly wished that he could bring Harry with him, but that would only make him turn away from him and hate him right now. If their roles were reversed, Tom could see himself feeling a similar way. Logically, he _would_ forgive the... _murder_...but Harry was not the most logical being.

Harry just needed to see how others would treat him. How _Tom_ was his only true friend, lover, and home...Harry was _his_ . He just needed to see it...and understand _why_.

Then, he’d learn that Tom was here to protect him, not hurt him.

Tom was here to _protect_ him.

With a sigh, Tom picked up his journal, walking away from Harry, his shoes echoing in the chamber as they hit the wet stone. He had many plans to make and carry out. For now, ruminating over Harry could wait.

He walked through the pipe maze that led to the outside, using Harry’s wand for a _Lumos_. He could even feel that the wands were brother wands. It absolutely delighted Tom...If he was correct, Fawks gave the feathers for their wand cores, and he would undoubtedly give another. 

The only thing that stopped Tom’s guilt for stealing Harry’s wand was that he had no doubt that the headmaster would ensure that Harry got a new one. 

Apparating to Riddle manor, Tom Riddle was a long way from Hogwarts. The manor would be an acceptable place to tarry a while and regroup, figure out what he had missed in the past fifty or so years. But… 

He smiled at nothing, unable to stop thinking back to those beautiful green eyes that he got to see for the first time with his own.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It didn’t take Tom very long to learn everything he’d missed in his nearly fifty years of absence. He showed up at Malfoy Manor, knowing that they would bend over backward to prove themselves. They filled him in quickly. After that, it didn’t take him very long to figure out how to use the Dark Mark to summon his followers. 

He wasn’t a dark lord in name only.

Tom had the power _and_ the knowledge to back it up.

They all came so readily to Riddle manor, many falling to their knees to kiss his feet, some even crying tears of joy. They all were glad to have the “new” Voldemort; even if they did not want to state it out loud, Tom could tell.

So they set out making plans.

This would be so easy. Unlike his other half, he could make a plan and follow it. It would be far easier to attack the Ministry from within. There were plenty of Death Eaters and sympathizers who were hidden within its walls, already waiting to enact their plans. They just needed a leader.

They did not need Lord Voldemort, his old insane self, the one they were unfortunately used to. They needed _him._

The first order of business, however, was to find that wraith and incapacitate it before it could cause any problems. No doubt it had already figured out that Tom was back.

Once that was taken care of, he would release some of his followers from Azkaban. He’d have to keep them on a short leash who knew what eleven years in that Hell had done to them.

But Tom had more than just plans to follow; he had a reason, one outside of power: Harry. He was going to change the world, and Harry would be safe. By the end of it, he would be like his Queen. There would no doubt be many Death Eaters who objected to this, but by then, the boy would be properly trained and ready for what would be required of him in the position.

Everything was already going perfectly to plan.

He’d be able to accomplish his goals much more smoothly than his counterpart ever would be able to. If anything, it was a miracle that he was reborn.

He rarely liked to admit that he was as fallible as any other human, but this was one area that he had to admit he’d made a mistake in. It was a mistake to create so many Horcruxes. There were, perhaps, limits to how far you should take magic... yes. Not how far it _could_ go, but how far it _should._

He had several good ideas about where his future self had hidden these objects, and he planned on reabsorbing some.

He’d also have to get Harry to make his own. Just one.

One was all that you really needed—two, if you absolutely must, but never more than _that_.

Tom had no idea how he was going to get Harry to agree to create a Horcrux, but that was a battle for another day.

He sat down on his seat next to the fire, pouring himself a glass of wine.

He wondered what type of drunk Harry would be... Would he give him those delicious glares? Or would he get mopey? He’d love to comfort and hug a mopey Harry—straddle him in his arms, and plant gentle kisses on his head as he cried. Or would he be a happy drunk? Laughing and giggling at every joke Tom said… Maybe… maybe he would be a _wanting_ drunk. Ready to jump into Tom’s arms and be _held._

Tom couldn’t help but imagine—Harry willingly coming to him, sitting on top of him in this very chair, legs straddling him, and rubbing against him; Harry whining to be touched and to be loved by Tom. The older one would be able to do nothing but oblige his greedy desires, touching him, kissing him…

The older boy groaned at his thoughts. He kept thinking like this. He couldn’t want for Harry to relive this tension; he’d have to take care of it himself. But he also wanted to save himself for Harry, and he wouldn’t dare let anyone _unworthy_ touch him—and so far, only _Harry_ was worthy. 

Only **Harry**.

But he was too young. The idea of waiting pained Tom, but it was for the best. He never wanted to hurt Harry like that. Even _he_ had moral standards, even if they were shaky at best. With a frustrated grunt, he pulled on his hair, but it did nothing to take his mind off his...excitement. Why couldn’t he stop thinking like this? Since when did everything become about Harry?

With a groan, he finished his drink and got ready for bed. He had another long day of meetings ahead.

As Tom lay in bed, he mused that despite the events in the Chamber of Secrets, remembering Harry’s bright green eyes brought him joy.

_His_ beautiful eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this took to post. Some internal issues for the fanfiction. My Beta Reader disappeared and I had to find a new one. I hope you enjoyed it! The next one will come out faster.
> 
> \- Zoi


	3. Chapter 3

  
  
  


**_CHAPTER III: Looking In_ **

* * *

  
  


“Have any of you seen Harry?” Neville came to the common room from his dorm. At this hour, the common room was fairly empty, barring Hermione, Ron, Dean, and Seamus.

They all exchanged glances, but Hermione was the first to speak. “We were just talking about him, Neville.”

“Do you guys know what’s wrong with him?” Neville asked, walking towards the sitting area where they congregated. “He’s been acting so weird, and I can’t find him anywhere. He just disappeared after dinner.”

“Dumbledore said it was because of a cursed object—you know that journal he’s been taking everywhere? But he said he took it away,” Ron answered, shifting nervously in his seat. “And now he’s missing; we already checked everywhere!”

“Not everywhere—” Dean cut Hermione off—

“We haven’t looked through every empty room or classroom yet. He could be there. I’ve seen him slip into them every now and then.”

“How are we supposed to look for him anyhow? It’s after curfew,” Seamus stated, leaning back into the sofa. “Whatever is going on, the snake probably deserves it—” Seamus paused after he received several glares. “I mean, he _is_ a Parselmouth...you know how they are.”

“You know, if you don’t want to help look for him, then bugger off!” Ron snapped. “We don’t need your help, so just leave!”

“Fine!” Seamus got up and stalked up the stairs. “But don’t come whining to me when the snake bites you.”

“Honestly!” Hermione started. “How can he believe that?”

They were silent for a long time. It wasn’t exactly an uncommon opinion currently, but Harry did not deserve it.

“We are going to sneak out to look for him. Right?” Everyone looked up at Neville and was shocked. “Don’t look at me like that! I know you guys want to help him too...I want to help even if it breaks the rules.”

“We do want to help him, Neville, but I don’t know about this,” Hermione said, slumping down, “Maybe we should get a teacher to—”

“And get him into trouble? He’s already had enough of a hard time without adding detentions to the list!” Ron added, crossing his arms with a huff. “He’s already so… so… restless, as it is! You’ve seen him study, I—detentions would not help him, Hermione!”

They didn’t notice that a first-year girl had walked into the common room till she spoke. “Have any of you seen Ginny? Last I saw, she was with Harry Potter after dinner. She looked rather ill. I thought he was taking her to the Infirmary—that’s what Harry said—but Madam Pomfrey said they never showed up—”

“Ginny…? In which direction did they walk?” Ron jumped up, walking to the girl, almost looming over her.

“I—I think… I don’t know! I thought they were going to see Madam Pomfrey, but they didn’t, and—”

“Ron, stop it!” Hermione snapped, getting up and putting her hand on his shoulder. “She doesn’t know.”

“But we’re sneaking out—we should take her with us! She’ll know where they went and—”

“But I really don’t! I only saw them just after dinner, right outside the Great Hall!” The girl started to tear up. “I just want to make sure Ginny’s okay—you’ll look for her, right?”

“Don’t worry, we will,” Hermione said, giving the girl a soft smile. “Come on, let’s go. They’re probably just… lost!”

The group filed through the portrait hole. The Fat Lady admonished them for leaving after curfew, but they ignored her words. They had more important things to do.

* * *

  
  


As they wandered the halls, curious about the lack of teachers, Hermione frowned, deep in thought.

She did not know what to do to help Harry. She didn’t know, and it terrified her.

It was like he was a different person now, always avoiding everyone, barely eating anything, studying to the point it was unhealthy, and even wanting to leave Quidditch. This was madness. Harry—was Harry mad? Is that what the book had done?

She shivered at the idea of a book cursing someone to… whatever Harry was right now. He was certainly not well, and it seemed like there was no way to fix it.

Harry was falling apart, and there was nothing she could do. Hermione was just thankful she had convinced him to stay on the Quidditch team. How could he abandon something he so clearly loved?

But there was only so much Hermione could do, could have done, for Harry. 

After the other students heard that he asked to leave the team, they only started to treat him worse. The twins would plan pranks on him, enchanting his quills so they wouldn’t work, just to watch how he would freak out about being unable to study.

He’d be tripped in the halls and occasionally hit with a jinx or hex—nothing serious, but just annoying. He’d even had to visit the hospital wing a few times.

She didn’t understand how he could keep going like this.

He was going to collapse under everything.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Ron, at first, had been angry. Angry like when Harry had wanted to quit Quidditch. 

Harry had gone loony, and there was nothing he could do to change that. Not anger, not his harsh words… nothing could help that. 

Always reading, studying—but it wasn’t like Hermione’s diligent studying... Harry pushed too far, hardly eating and spending as much time in the library as possible. Then after the Quidditch incident, he started to push himself further on that. 

Then it moved to their friendship.

He tried to do a mad dash through chess games and “spend time” without actually spending much time at all.

It was pure madness—so much that he even wrote to his parents about it.

They only told him it was a phase or that he was upset over something, but either way to not push him too much.

_‘Don’t talk and give him some space.’_

He followed their advice the best he could at first. Then Harry said he wanted to leave the Quidditch team, which was the final straw. 

Whatever had him so upset was not worth leaving the Quidditch team.

So he gave Harry a piece of his mind. Not like it would get through anyway, but his anger did not last long the longer he watched Harry tear himself apart.

But Harry did deserve everything that he got, as far as Ron was concerned. However, he still had to make sure he and his sister were okay. He didn’t want to see Harry act like this any longer, either. He...doesn’t want Harry to be hurt anymore.

He cared about both of them and would even if they had… phases. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Neville had noticed Harry had been acting off for a while but didn’t know what to say, so he just let things be. It wasn’t like he could ask him, and he could tell that Harry probably would not want to talk about it either.

He couldn’t help but feel he’d done something terribly wrong.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Dean wasn’t the closest to Harry, but he did care. It was hard to watch Harry fall apart, and it was even harder to know he would refuse any help given to him. Maybe now he could make up for not doing anything to help.

He'd tried to keep an eye out for Harry, but it didn't help. It seemed nothing did, not even his best friends.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Seamus could not say he loathed anyone, not until Harry started to, well, act like he was. First, it was the ability to talk to snakes. Then more strangeness started to follow Harry like a dark cloud.

He could not fathom why the others still trusted or even cared about him. Nonsense.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They had been walking for an hour now trying to check every room, but still had no luck. It really was hopeless. At this rate they would never find Harry or Ginny. They could only hope that they were okay.

“Maybe he’s outside—”

Neville paused, ears tuning into the rushed footsteps coming closer. It sounded like a whole group of people. Before they could dart away and hide, a herd of teachers rounded the corner, “Good heavens! What are you all doing out of bed!” The group stopped as Minerva shouted at the students. “Goodness gracious, Severus, we do not have time for this—”

“P-professors!” Ron interrupts them, “Harry and Ginny are missing!”

There was a beat of silence before Dumbledore intervened. “Severus, you stay here. We don’t have time to find out the details. Fawkes most likely is leading us to them.”

The other professors started to rush off again, leaving the group of students behind with furious Professor Snape.

“You better have a good explanation as to why you did not come to a professor with this information.”

They looked at each other, and Ron was the first to speak. “W-well—that last thing he needed… was a detention?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


After spending two hours being interrogated by Snape, they were interrupted by a weary McGonnagall.

“That is enough for tonight, Snape.” She looked exhausted, more so than any of the lions in the room had seen their Head of House before. “You all are dismissed. Mr. Weasley, you better stay behind. Your family is in the headmaster’s office. I’ll walk you there.”

They all knew something had gone terribly wrong.

They all could feel it.

Ron’s stomach was a pit in his soul. He already felt as if he knew what had happened.

Why was his family here? Had they found Ginny? Was she okay?

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was a very rare event that Snape called a staff meeting, and even rarer for it to be about his concerns for a student.

Especially if that one student was named Harry Potter.

But none of the other members could deny that they too were concerned about him. His behavior since the start of the year had been erratic at best, and now, it was obsessive.

“I’m sure you all have noticed Potter’s recent behavior,” Snape stated to the room. “I’d like to find out why, or if we can help him. There’s something clearly wrong.”

There was a brief murmur between the professors.

“Indeed, there is something wrong,” Dumbledore spoke. “I have already… disposed of the source of the issue. However, it has left some lasting effects on Harry.” All eyes snapped to the headmaster. “He was under the influence of a dark artifact. I’m currently looking into how he came to be in possession of such an item. However, right now, we must focus on how we can help him in his current state.”

Snape was silent for a moment. Of course the old man wouldn’t notify the staff. “Headmaster, I trust you know the best way to help him?”

“I do not. The magic of the book has already faded in its connection to Potter, so this is not a magical issue. It’s mental.” He gave a sigh. “Minerva was there when I took the artifact from Harry’s possession; she saw the effects of it as much as I did.”

“Albus! He attacked you to protect it; I told you we should do more, but you weren’t listening!” She raised her voice, staring straight ahead at the old man, wringing her hands. “That book had such a strong hold over the boy, all this recent interest in studies might very well be because he vaguely mentioned he should!”

Madam Hooch spoke up next. “I was told he asked Wood about leaving Quidditch.”

“He’s started to brew exceptional potions in my class.”

“He’s been getting all of the charms I teach right the first time. I have a feeling he’s been practicing them before I even teach them. In the halls, I’ve seen him use some utility charms that I have not taught yet. Some are years ahead of his level.”

“He’s shown no interest in Herbology before, yet suddenly, he knows more than even Longbottom.”

Every professor started to share every odd thing they’d seen Harry do in recent times. Spending all hours in the library, only taking breaks for class and meals (even during meals, he took a book with him), Quidditch practice, and games.

“From what I’ve seen, he’s even avoiding talking to other students,” Gilderoy spoke up next, “I’ve seen him outright ignore several students even when they talked to him.”

“It seems we indeed have a problem here. Now, how can we help P—” Snape was cut off by the sudden appearance of Fawkes, bursting into the room in a show of fire and light. His eyes darted to Dumbledore, who seemed concerned. “Headmaster?”

“Fawkes would like us to follow him.”

They rushed out of the staff room, following the phoenix through the halls, running into several surprised students—friends of Potter who had snuck out looking for him. Snape split off from the group to deal with them.

They were led out of the castle and towards the area by the lake, where Fawkes stopped.

“He wants us to wait here.”

They all stood there, silently wondering what could have possibly happened to get Fawkes involved.

Their questions were quickly answered when he came into view carrying a tied up Harry Potter, whose eyes were glossed over. He was in shock.

“Ginny’s dead,” he stated blankly.

“How, Harry? What happened?” The headmaster knelt down, removing the magical bonds.

“Tom… Riddle.” He looked into the headmaster’s eyes. His brows furrowed when he heard the name. “The journal I gave you was a fake. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I-i-it’s my fault! I lied to you! A-a-and because I did that—she’s, she’s gone.”

He broke out into sobs. Dumbeldore wrapped his arms around the boy, rubbing circles into his back. “He’s uninjured, but I think a visit to Madam Pomfrey is still in order. Minerva, you know what to do with the Weasleys. Fawkes, please take another professor down here so we can see what happened.”

“Th-the Ch-chamber of Secrets,” Harry managed to get through his sobs, “Th-that’s where.”

The teachers looked at each other with concern. They understood exactly what the Chamber of Secrets was.

“Come on, Harry. Let’s go.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Harry’s eyes slid open. His body was sore and tired, and his mind foggy from sleep. It took a moment to even realize where he was and find his glasses, and another to… remember.

Ginny.

Harry shook as the events from last night flashed through his mind, trembling as he remembered Tom’s cold lips.

“Mr. Potter, you’re awake!” Madam Pomfrey walked over to him with a comforting smile. “Just in time for breakfast too. If you hurry, you might still be able to make it. Or you could eat here if you like—that might be easier.”

Ginny was dead. Ron wouldn’t be there. None of the Weasleys would be. Because of him… because of Harry.

He did not want to see the empty table, or the sad looks on everyone’s faces, or the teachers’ disapproving glares at him.

“I… I think eating here would be for the best.”

Pomfrey nodded and called in a house-elf, but Harry didn’t notice the strange creature as he receded back into his mind again.

He only managed to nod when the food was set in front of him while he was still in bed, giving a whispered thanks.

Harry only managed to take a few bites before he felt sick and pushed the food away, not even noticing the concerned look Pomfrey gave him.

Soon, a tired-looking Dumbledore walked into the Infirmary, pulling Harry out and walking him to his office.

Harry had refused to look up at Dumbledore ever since they’d entered his office for this serious and long-overdue discussion.

“Harry…” Dumbledore sighed. 

There was no reply.

“Harry,” he stated once more, but to no avail.

“It—It’s all my f— all my fault, professor,” he choked out. “I-i-if I had just trusted you! If I actually listened, then—then—”

“Harry!” Dumbledore cut in—rudely, in his opinion, but there was no other way to calm the boy. Finally, Harry met his eye for the briefest of moments. What he saw there chilled him to the bone. “Please, Harry, tell me what happened—everything. Leave nothing out.”

And so, Harry began. An outpouring that was a less-abridged version of how he had found the diary on his bed and how it had written back and wormed its way into his life. How Pharrell had seemed to understand him just so well, better than Ron and Hermione—than anyone! And how he could carry his friend anywhere in his bag and tell him anything. Dumbledore listened with as neutral of an expression as he could muster, now realizing the sheer depth to which Harry had been affected by the dark artifact he himself, as the headmaster, should have prevented from ever entering a castle full of vulnerable children.

Harry’s retelling eventually approached the present—this terrible present where one of his students was dead, another was severely damaged, and Tom Riddle was now loose in the world once more.

“I don’t know how I got there, sir. It was like… waking up. I woke up.” Harry shifted in his chair, discomfited by the gap in his memory. “Then I saw Pharrell and thought—and he went to hug me, and I thought everything was going to be okay… but then I—I saw Ginny just… _lying_ there. Not moving. I don’t even know if she was breathing. I don’t think she was—that she was—was dead yet—

“I just, I mean—I knew what he was doing… I just don’t know how! I knew he was going to kill her… was killing her… And then… he told me his real name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. And who he also was… that he was… that he was _him_ , and—”

It would usually be at this point that the headmaster would insist Voldemort was referred to by the moniker he had chosen, as fearing the name only made him seem a Goliath no mere wizard could possibly stand against. But on this occasion, no—nothing was said about the substitution.

Harry swallowed heavily, biting back more sobs. More dully, he recounted, “He used a spell to tie me up, like what you saw, and…” 

He looked Dumbledore in the eye for a brief moment before turning away to stare at nothing in particular. He saw, not the office, but Ginny right in front of him, and no matter what he did, it just kept coming. Now he had those words he had barely been able to find in the Chamber itself, and he couldn’t stop reliving what happened down there, the way Tom had forced a kiss on him—like a coward, he hadn’t even fought back.

“He… Ginny died… and he left,” Harry finished, rather numbly. He felt cold, and impossibly tired.

Dumbledore looked upon him with worried eyes, probing and guilty. Why would he be, though? This was all Harry’s fault, after all. If he just hadn’t been so damn stupid—.

“Are you sure that’s all, Harry? You can tell me anything, and I shall not judge you. Wizards many years your elder have been fooled by Lord Voldemort.” Dumbledore had already seen the kiss in Harry’s thoughts. It made no sense that Tom would do such a thing. There must be more that Harry was withholding. Dumbledore pressed harder into Harry’s mind for more answers, willing him to speak.

“H-he—” Harry started to panic, sucking in short breaths. “I didn’t want to—”

“Harry, look at me,” Dumbledore commanded. “You must breathe.”

The man’s words were quickly overridden, washed away by Harry’s growing panic. He felt like he was suffocating—he couldn’t breathe, could barely think, and how could Dumbledore tell him to breath when, when—

Harry startled at a cool touch to his lips—

Not Tom, it wasn’t Tom. Tom was gone, had left him… was warm now, alive… and Pharrell had never even really existed and—

… and a thin, aromatic liquid splashed into his mouth, tasting like treacle tarts and fresh rain—and, oddly, the rush of wind as he soared on his broom.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Dumbledore said kindly. “It is a simple Calming Draught—trust me, it will help.”

Looking up at the headmaster, Harry did indeed begin to calm down. Dumbledore was right. The palpitations he was suffering began to subside, and he found he could breathe again. But the removal of that haze of panic made the truth all the clearer—he was nothing but a coward. And he had gotten Ginny killed.

Why hadn’t he protected her? Why couldn’t he even fight for himself? He—

“Harry!” Dumbledore called loudly, hoping to turn the boy from the dark paths his mind was taking. “What he did is not your fault, and you are no coward for being unable to prevent this. While, yes, you indeed protected the book against reason, it was most likely not your free decision to do so. From what you have told me, I can ascertain that he possessed you, and this is how you and Ginny—though by what means the latter, I am as of yet uncertain—found your way into the Chamber. With that type of power, it is entirely likely he was altering your thoughts and emotions from the first instant your quill touched the diary’s pages.”

“I—you don’t think it’s my fault?”

“We are both to blame, Harry. You are, admittedly, at fault in some areas, but you could not have known. As a vastly older and, dare I say it, more experienced wizard than yourself, I should have been able to see what was happening sooner and prevent this.” Dumbledore looked at Harry encouragingly. “Now, Harry, it is at last time to tell me what happened—everything, as I have said. Leave nothing out, Harry; any detail, no matter how insignificant, could be vital.”

Harry gulped, a fresh torrent of the night’s events rushing through his head like an unstoppable tsunami. He felt so… disgusting. He didn’t want to tell Dumbledore everything (some of it was really private). But that was exactly what had caused this awful mess in the first place. Hiding things.

“He… he kissed me, and I—” Harry started, then immediately halted to sob, burying his ashamed expression in his palms as he struggled to continue. “I was such a coward… I didn’t even try to stop him! I should’ve done something! Anything!”

He hadn’t even noticed that Dumbledore had stood when the aged wizard’s hand came down firmly, comfortingly, on his shoulder. Harry looked down at the mahogany desk, dotted with trinkets, to avoid having to turn to the man now crouched beside him.

“Harry… I have said it already, but I feel it warrants repeating—you are no coward.”

Initially, Harry couldn’t even gather the wherewithal to respond to Dumbledore. He simply wept, releasing all the tension, the horror, and the torment in one go, until there were no more tears left to be had.

“It’s disgusting,” he croaked, when his throat was open enough to force words through once more, “but I almost care more about—about what he did to me, than—than what he did to— to—to Ginny.” 

“It is only natural to be upset with what happened, Harry.” Dumbledore began, hands folded together. “But the most important thing is to move on and continue to live. Since you have had yet to notice the absence of your wand—” Harry paused in shock. Tom—he still had it. “—I must inform you that Ollivander is making you a new one. You see, Harry, Fawkes here was the phoenix who gave the feather that was made into your original wand core. He wished to gift you another.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Now, I would like to see you in my office every Saturday evening. I feel there is a lot you need to talk about and process, Harry.” The man gave him a comforting smile. “But that is for another day. You may go; school has been canceled for the time being.”

With a curt nod, Harry got up and walked out, shooting a glance over his shoulder at Dumbledore just before he closed the door to his office.

  
  
  
  


Now alone with only his phoenix, the portraits of previous school heads, and his turbulent thoughts for company, Dumbledore rested his head in his hand.

How had he allowed this to happen? He knew the signs, the warnings in history from the changes students had shown across multiple generations after coming into contact with Voldemort, however unknowingly. And yet his trust in Harry, his faith and refusal to push the boy when he had already suffered _so much_ … it had resulted in negligence to his duties, and the death of a young Gryffindor student.

But also… 

His head lifted marginally, peering at his aged hands; he twisted them around one another while deep in thought.

Both Harry—and, to some degree of which he was unsure, Miss Weasley—had come into contact with Tom Riddle’s diary, foul piece of dark magic that it was—but only Miss Weasley had perished. Not Harry, from whom, in his guise as Pharrell McInnis, Tom must surely have forced out the tale of Voldemort's banishment at Godric’s Hollow. He would have thought Tom would be obsessed with trying to work out what was special about Harry—and then, once he decided the young boy was nothing particularly spectacular, discard him, having assumed Voldemort’s defeat was a fluke and nothing more.

When Voldemort discarded people, they were not usually found. When they _were_ —Dumbledore closed his eyes tiredly, recalling several deaths in the Order during the last war that had been… less than pleasant discoveries—it was merely to make a statement of power, to frighten those who remained standing staunch against his madness and tyranny.

But not _Harry_. Voldemort had not killed Harry, though surely knowing that at the age of one, it was impossible, no more than myth and misconception that Harry had somehow defeated him.

Then again… was this Voldemort really the _true_ Voldemort? Before he twisted himself beyond recognition, he was still just a schoolboy. Driven, charismatic, and ruthless, yes, and with a disturbing lack of empathy for others… but just a boy. 

_A student not too dissimilar from Harry himself_.

Dumbledore mused on all the information he had gathered. Fawkes trilled lightly from his perch, clearly affected by the night’s revelations.

“I simply do not know, Fawkes,” the headmaster sighed as, puffing himself up, the phoenix cocked his head questioningly. A thought—tentative and dangerous—trembled at the back of his mind—and then, dislodged, swam up into focus. “Harry survived; Miss Weasley did not—and this seems to have been _purposeful_ , on Tom’s part… Could it be,” he mused, the seeming impossibility flickering in and out of view, “that somehow Tom has come to _care_ for Harry?”

Surely not?

Fawkes only cooed in response. It wasn’t an affirmative, but neither was it an entirely doubtful sound.

Voldemort had cared for none, it was true… but perhaps, in the right circumstances and with the right _incentive_ (Harry, it seemed—however curious that was), Tom was capable of mercy. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


After his meeting with the headmaster, Harry left the castle and went out to the lake. He just sat down in the cold weather, snow underneath him, but the burning cold didn’t bother him much. If it got too bad, he could just warm himself with magic. 

A heating charm would be easy to cast—but then he remembered that he had no wand. 

Because Tom had it.

He was going through every memory he had of Pharrell, of _Voldemort_ , trying to figure out where it all went wrong. Reliving what happened in the Chamber of secrets over and over again, desperately trying to glean something from it.

Harry had stopped paying attention to the time; he just watched the lake, and how the shadows of the trees around him moved and now stretched.

He had looked up to Pharrell so much. He’d _liked_ him, trusted him with his deepest secrets, with his _life_ … and now Harry knew the truth.

Pharrell never existed at all. There was just _Voldemort_.

Harry clenched his hands tightly, trying to focus on the way his nails dug into his palms rather than the fact that _Voldemort_ had kissed him.

Harry curled up and buried his head in his knees and started to cry silently, the feeling of _Voldemort’s_ lips forever seared into his soul and memories.

“Hello, Harry.” It was a girl’s voice. He hadn’t met her before. “I come out here to think too—and to get away from nargles, or the pesky wollie-wops. Is that what you’re doing too?”

Harry lifted his head to look at the girl. She was a Ravenclaw with light hair and a dreamy feel to her. “Y-yeah… wollie-wops, I hate them.”

“Mind if I sit?” Harry didn’t respond, but she sat down in the snow with him anyways. “I saw you weren’t at breakfast or lunch. It’s okay to be upset. Dumbledore told us what happened—not too much but enough. Cursed objects can be pretty dreadful… School doesn’t start again till the day after tomorrow. Thought you should know.”

Harry didn’t say anything, but he wished she would go back to talking about wollie-wops again.

“If it means anything, I don’t think it was your fault… but I’m curious! If you’ve seen wollie-wops… have you seen the nargles?”

Harry couldn’t help but feel at peace. The strange girl’s weirdness demanded his attention. He wasn’t in the Chamber any longer.

“I don’t think so?” Harry brought his head up to look at the girl, just realizing now how awful he must look with his tear-stained face. He probably even had snot running down his nose.

“Oh! I can tell you all about them!” She giggled with a bright smile, “I’m Luna Lovegood. I think I forgot to tell you.”

“Luna… so… what exactly are, uh— _Nargels?”_

It was nice to listen to her ramble. The more she spoke of the strange creatures she knew of, the more he realized they couldn’t possibly be real, even in the magical world. She didn’t stay very long, mentioning something about _“thestrals”_ and leaving.

He was alone once more. His heart burned at the thought of it—at the thoughts that came _from_ it.

Harry swallowed. 

He doubted that any of the Weasleys would ever want to talk to him again, let alone befriend him. Hermione probably hated him now, too. He’d ruined everything. Harry would cry, but he was too tired for tears. He’d already used most of them up before Luna even arrived.

Pharrell, Tom, _Voldemort_ —he wasn’t sure what to call him anymore—was the only person who wanted to… be with Harry. Even someone as kind as Luna left to go see thestrals. It stung, and if Harry had the energy, he would laugh at the idea. But he probably deserved this as a punishment. He wondered how the Weasleys would treat him when they came back.

Like how he deserved, Harry assumed.

As he thought, Harry failed to notice how the shadow of the tree behind him began to stretch across the snow, and the temperatures dropped. He was shivering, but couldn’t bring himself to get up and head inside.

It was nearing sunset when he heard snow crunching behind him.

“Harry, you must eat. You can not skip meals,” Dumbledore said softly, standing next to the boy. After a moment, Harry looked over to him and noticed that McGonagall was there as well. 

“Oh,” Harry whispered, curling up tighter on himself. 

“Harry, my boy, it’s cold. We should go inside to have our discussion—”

“No. I’m staying here—we can have it _here_ ,” Harry hissed, almost certainly the last word slipped into Parseltongue.

“Very well, then. At least let me cast a warming charm.” Harry nodded, and Dumbledore flicked his wand. Harry no longer felt miserable, and for some reason, it made things worse. “I had to tell your Head of House what happened—all of it. I wanted to let you know that she’s here for you if you need to talk.” Harry felt something dark gurgle in his heart as he lifted his head slightly.

Of course he couldn’t trust the headmaster to keep a secret or have any tact. Yet again, _Voldemort_ was right in his advice to be wary of the man.

He looked up and met Dumbeldore’s eyes. 

_He’ll regret this._

The man’s eyes stopped twinkling for the briefest of moments. “I hope you understand why I had to tell her. What you suffered was highly traumatic for you, and I can’t always be here to help you. Your Head of House can be here for you when I am not.”

Harry didn’t see that as worthy of replying to.

“Professor Dumbledore is right, Mr. Potter. This is for the best—”

“I’m sure _Pharrell_ believes that what he did was for the best too.” Tears started to stream down his face. “He liked to use that a lot too! ‘It would be best if you,’ ‘it’s for the best’... And you know — when he was killing Ginny, he said, ‘ _I hope you understand this really is all for the_ best _.’”_ Harry broke out into painful laughter. “For the best! Really! It’s for the best… you’re all the same… **_liars!_ ** _You all are… j-just a bunch of liars…”_

Harry started to sob, struggling to wipe away his tears. “I trusted him, and I… I trust… trusted you too. Clearly, my judgment isn’t very good.”

Dumbledore and McGonnagall shared a concerned look.

“Now, Mr. Potter, what Riddle did was horrible… we are trying to help you—”

“Oh, you certainly have helped me a lot! Leaving me with those _Muggles_ that I’m forced to call family! Of course you want to help! He did too, and he was better at it than you, for all it’s worth… which means nothing.” Harry curled up on himself, afraid of his own thoughts, “He… He told me that he loved me… He was so angry when I got upset with him. He… I—I don’t want to think about it! This—this is your fault! It’s all your fault…”

There was a long silence; there wasn’t much that _could_ be said.

McGonagall snapped, struggling to keep her voice calm, but it wasn’t working, “Well, freezing to death out here will not help anything, and starving yourself won’t either! You will come inside, and you will eat!”

Harry swallowed. That wasn’t something he could argue against, yet he remained quiet for a moment, shifting around, ashamed about what he’d accused them of. “Fine.”

He got up, trying to not meet either of them in the eye. He shouldn’t have said what he did. They weren’t like Pharrell. Not at all.

Pharrell was _Voldemort_ . Dumbledore and McGonagall were _good_ people; they were just… wrong sometimes. They’d both known his parents and wanted to help him now. They were better than Tom. Harry tried to swallow the heavy feeling in his chest, his eyes meeting Dumbledore’s for a brief moment. It hurt to know Tom loved him.

“It’s okay to be upset, Harry, but we mustn’t let it prevent us from living our lives. And I feel the need to stress that what Tom did _is not_ love. What he did was monstrous and certainly not _love._ ”

Harry swallowed dryly, looking down at his feet, walking alongside them. Dumbledore was wrong. Pharrell cared so much; he was so, so much to Harry. It was real. It was _love_ … and it hurt. It was so _ugly_ — Tom’s love was an _ugly thing._

Even if they were wrong about some things, at least they had good morals and wouldn’t kill anyone.

Pharrell—no, _Voldemort_ — held no such reservations. Harry understood well that there was nothing _Voldemort_ was not willing to violate. Neither the sanctity of life, nor Harry.

He’d hurt—he _violated_ —the very thing he said he cared for.

Harry started to cry again.

Pathetic.

Harry thought he had loved Pharrell, too… 

And that thought terrified him as much as the Chamber did.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Harry spent the rest of that evening, much like he spent most of his day, in a daze. He barely registered them entering the Infirmary.

“Mr. Potter!” Madam Pomfrey shouted, aghast. “It hasn’t even been a full day since you were last here. You look awful! Have you come down with a cold?”

“No, Poppy, he spent the whole day sitting in the snow by the lake. We need you to make sure he doesn’t get sick.” McGonagall sighed, “He’s having a rough go of it, which is understandable.”

The medi-witch nodded and motioned for Harry to sit on one of the beds.

“I understand that you need time to grieve and process all that has happened,” she whispered softly, putting her hand on his shoulder. “But you must also take care of yourself. If you want to talk, I’ll always be here for you.”

“Th-thank you…” Harry curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his torso.

“Now, none of that. Chin up, Harry.” She gave him a soft smile. “We can’t trap ourselves in guilt. It truly wasn’t your fault.”

Harry swallowed, looking over to where Dumbledore and McGonagall were standing. He could see their mouths move but couldn’t make out any noise. “I mean, everyone—you and the professors—have said it, but…”

She gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I understand how it must seem, but we all saw how strange you had been acting. If a single professor at this school had decided to ask or investigate, we could have prevented what happened. But it does us no good to sit and wallow in our mistakes. You don’t see any professors sitting out in the snow all day, do you?”

“No.” Harry’s face flushed.

“We are hurt as well, Harry. All of us knew Ginny, too…” She took a breath and gave the boy a sad smile. “We’re all just glad that you weren’t hurt too. Let’s keep it that way, hmm?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably under her stare. She was right. He knew that, logically, she was right. Yet his heart still _hurt_ . Not only because of what happened to Ginny, but because of what _he_ did.

Harry was a traitor for lying, and he felt filthy because of the kiss.

He didn’t notice Pomfrey move away to call an elf. He just sat, gut churning at what he’d done.

Harry was only brought out of his thoughts by a tray of food appearing on the table in the Infirmary. 

“Now, Mr. Potter, you’re already skinny enough as it is. Come eat.”

He ate.

And bite after bite, he felt sicker and sicker with that churning feeling in his gut.

Ginny would never get to eat again, so why should he? _Why was he here, and Ginny dead?_

They only let him stop after he finished half.

They gave him a potion—Dreamless Sleep. Pomfrey told him to drink it before he went to bed. It would stop his dreams.

He was terrified of them. More than anything, because he knew what would be waiting for him there: _Voldemort._

_"I’ll see you in your dreams, Harry.”_

Harry felt his stomach churn.

He wouldn’t… he would never dream again; he’d die first!

Dumbledore’s hand landed on his shoulder, gently nudging him towards the door of the Infirmary. “You should rest early tonight, Harry. It’s been a long day. Let’s get you to Gryffindor Tower.”

The two professors led him through the halls and to his… home… where everyone would be.

Their eyes followed him as he ran up the stairs and to his own dorm room before anyone could say something to him.

It was entirely his fault—all of it.

He rushed to get changed and ready for bed before anyone followed him to his dorm and drank the Dreamless Sleep.

He was glad that he wouldn’t find out what Tom meant by _“in your dreams”_ tonight or any time soon.

It did not take very long for Harry to slip off into a deep slumber.


End file.
